Pleasure Trip

The sun scorched our backs before we could make a run for the shadow and our hips convoluted and it all didn’t matter because this is a holiday.

Across the street in the place where the stones would bake a pizza – the real Italian way, you know – five figures are composed like a sixteenth century Renaissance painting – only their needles and old t-shirts unveiled a direness showing in bystanders’ convulsions
one of them hunched over his own groins, intently looking at the blood filling tube slowly slowly come on there it goes

Someone walks by, takes a look, he glances upwards, face twisted by desirous hopelessness,
someone walks further
is this abjection?

You look but you cannot look yet you want to look, you are not nauseous but there is a lump that grows from your throat and you are shrouded in the dullness of grey concrete
they escape with another injection

– just one more now, please, come on

He wipes his belly with a white piece of cloth. Was the needle clean?
Back to still-life, looks around, the head now held high and he is like David, curled hair and such a fine nose, with a laid back, slightly curved, posed attitude of relaxedness. But this is not Florence and the stones are not made of marble and the Frankfurt sun only competes with the red lights that flash in the streets even during the day.

So we walk on we run, run further than this, in search for real culture. This is not man, this is not made, this is an unfortunate collapse of atoms huddled together in another dimension where perpetuity is sustained by a pumping heart while we’d rather escape time by staring at Caravaggio’s decapitations.

There are socks shattered on the street where the cars go and they grab another baby wipe to make the way for another needle, all in vein, all in vein.

Afterwards, some socks are recovered, unlaced shoes and a bag that needs packing – there’s small stuff and then a treasured book goes in and the kit of needles goes in and he scrambles up on skinny legs. When he is around the corner, a police car drives by. Perfect timing.

– Robin van den Brule

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