Morganti Fragment: down from the Lago

When he’d first come into town, drifted round the periphery, on the coat-tails of all the others from the lago who didn’t know any better, thinking the big city meant seeing the same people they saw up on the lake but in a more expensive bar with shitter food, bars with small dogs in them and stink of gelled heads, first years: drifted round the periphery, like a bobbing head, trading in sex, not other things, leaving the acrid taste of a white chick’s sincere chest tribal tattoo in his mouth. He stared at her and he could get off. The next morning, the bar, the coffee bar with coffee cups piled up next to Africans and bus drivers like the long comic reality of an American movie, chocolate brioche exploding on his fingers, walking out in the piss cold to see the sunrise properly, and the land steam.

-LPM