The Madonna

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It is that time again when one needs to regurgitate consumed reality for those that cannot digest the rawness of Life.

Last night I met her again walking down the narrow street crammed with little shops and seedy bars filled with tattooed gentry and women in leather. These leathers and feathers want to be seen in their leather boots, leather skirts with holes in them and hems that defy gravity (stitched by a tailor with an epileptic fit). Colourful and contorted creatures that harm no one for their world exists in the plums of a spliff or the little round tabs that fit neatly beneath the pierced tongue.

Her name is Madonna (name changed to save her from immigration and a homicidal maniac of a boyfriend). She has an angelic face and carries her baby in a black cloth slung around her neck.