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Londonear

London colors

UNITED KINGDOM | Wednesday, 20 May 2015 | Views [78] | Scholarship Entry

London is a gig. Leo Cohen, Björk and Grieg simultaneously on the dial. London Town is London’s foreword – cyber ethnics strolling around me. Silver rings piercing ears and lips; multicoloured hair; pale skins; blue eyes; Moslem glinpses – a taste of Bangladesh on British baked potatoes; scent of curry in the burger. Rastafaris put on ties taking the underground.
A crashed buganville pot on the royal sidewalk as long as a sudden photographer steals the scene. A psychedelic tornado is London. Wide awake I can feel its intensity, while some clubbing ecstasy takes place under the spotlight’s fake aurora. The sweet blue bandoneon in West Ende, the cither, sounds from Tibet and Xangai; Malay winds, some coins in exchange. London imitates London.
Orgiastic nights at Soho – wild loose abandon from Covent Garden’s guys embracing each other. All red and glistening, sliding in and out tantalisingly, but (even though) they “don’t care”. The swahili tongue grazing Danish teats, sweat drops between their bodies. Asiatic dragons, zen-hindu-capitalism, laser printed papyrus with Nefertiti’s face in the British Museum; Finn mob in this shining Gotham City so crowded with princes and queens and dukes and viscounts. Never seen as much pleasure and as little contentment.
Mutterings from viperous words on newspapers. Walkabouts and talkabouts. From Trafalgar Square I set my timing the world’s time looking upon the big Big Ben whereas the flood of images doesn’t synthesises me.. And the paradox is that I’m strangely entangled and somehow aside, within this kaleidoscope: loud sneezings from the ladies on the streets, green grass, pink paperwalls, brick houses, the fattest cats on earth, choices to make, bills to pay, friendships to build, songs to sing, endless nights of inner silence.
Portobello Road is burning. In Oxford Circus a pickpocket. In Hyde Park the french kiss. Underneath London’s grey sky I can hear the chuckles and in the final cut, I get the feeling that I’m alive. Sort of adrift, but even so, swinging London.

Tags: 2015 Writing Scholarship

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