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Ghetto
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The endless drizzle foams between the gaps in the concrete. Filth from the ground percolates up into futons hung out to air. The air is wet with horsehair and frozen mud and The feeble floodlights of the racetrack across the river. There is an overwhelming sense of Three. Two. One Lights out. A futon falls sodden from the stairwell, sending shards of mud Onto the walls. Monday afternoon blizzards rattle the iron gates. The only sound is pitter. pity. patter. patty, asbestos cracking beneath the weight of paper dolls Effigies created during last yearfs summer festival. Suspended animation. Three. Two. One. The rain thinks of stopping its tirade. A break. The one week old washing drips and fades and takes its time to consider its fate. The landscape of the island ghetto is whitewashed by bright blue bins and white vans and forgotten tatami mats stacked against the concrete boxes. Boxes ageless beneath the grime. As the rain moves on, there is nothing left to shield this urban graveyard. Lives are lived and lost and little changes. Three. Two. One. |
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| Posted by Matt at 19:58 /writing # |