the corso, and the passers by
A small Japanese man with a eyeless pigeon on his shoulder stands at the Tea House curb waiting for the traffic light to allow him over the road.
A youth with impoverished flesh strides past the hotel window and he softly grasps his genitals and then his buttocks in a rhythmic sort of fashion and then he glances up at us here we think but he is only seeking his reflection in the window.
A wiry old man plastered up with the ruined face of a rum drinker and with his grey mullet pulled back hard on the solitary glitter of one earring yanks forward his diminutive asian lady, who trails slowly behind him – she looks hungry and sore from the hard travelling.
Fat men and fat women wander around eating food from boxes and the Corso pulses with a corpulent and sluggish life that tires quickly in the sunshine.
A thickset boy battles his way down through the market stall crowd – he is at war with his demons of a rattling palsy and the fantastic madness of Tourette’s Syndrome.
He wrenches his body about and ogres himself this way and that and he blasphemes and curses and scuttles around crablike and mutters and swears. Round-eyed and frightened he yells his way through the tourists. A disembodied rage bubbles out of his mobile features. He is led by a pure faced young girl who knows but does not care to see him yank at himself and mime orgasm and shout heretical prayers and twist his demonised body through the shoppers – Who part and re-gather like schoolfish.
He hosts a teeming multitude of mad souls and a black exhaustion circles his eyes as they flicker in and about us, who stand by watching his passing – this boy.
In the distance the Bower breaks white and sweeping and a surfboat glides by sweetly on an unbroken wave into the corner and the golden sun and blue sky blesses us all.
note: the header pic of an a dentists chair in an abandoned insane asylum is by santiago ramos here