Fish is the weed and whatever man, says Dizzy. Dizzy’s your regular subway boy looking up.
Whatever, man, says Fish.
There’s a glass tank busy with goldfish. Hence the name, she supposes. Fish has a stash of nice and nasty treasured down the side of his sofa.
Fish looked upon her. Weighed her. So, you’ve come all the way from the farmyard, have you, he says. Forgive me. Gold tooth smile. Please, sit down.
The business begins.
Fish climbs out of the sofa and paddles the room. He stands at the fish tank and dips an arm, up to the elbow. He fingers the water with a come, come, coo. He palms and withdraws, to Black Uhuru, a golden wriggler. The fish, concealed in his fist, palm magic, is brought to his lips and, with a whisper and something akin to a kiss, a sharp intake of breath delivers it into and beyond his bearded, aubergine face.
The dreadlock, eyes like pipe coals, spies a brew on the table, pours a long throat-open draught and commits the fish to his belly. He opens his empty aubergine hand and gestures the tank to Letitia.
and when i sleep, luella. [x/xii]©2019