And now I am drifting, drifting away from the relevance

Of impending affairs, even though there are whole towns

Burning down elsewhere, but here… here old men gather to chat

And play chequers, seated on plastic chairs behind pineapples and pears

Sold by one grizzled hippie, while people are swapping partners

As they dance amateur samba gaffiera in front of the palace

This evening – which feels more like noon to me, jet-lagged as I am.

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Everything is plural here in Catete: the blind, the bums,

The breasts, the bags, the bikes, the backs of knees, biceps, back-packs…

Rio is ideal for the flaneur. Imagine holing her!

Some of us go messy, others horny, but it’s too damn hot!

Over-dressy, corny lamé tee-shirts are the thing to wear

When painting toenails in the Sahara.  Here the human torrent

Passes by in plait-extensions. Air-conditioned stores

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Lure you in for sneakers, pouches. Everything is multiple…

Arms in arms and polka dots, brilliant bottoms it’s a joy to watch

Until they disappear beyond the swiftly changing lights.

Macrame stalls sell skirts you would never wear in the street.

Her mascara stains her mobile. Tats, palms, beeps,

Charms to keep you nubile after thirty. The witches shake

A kind of rattle, fascinating Dionysus – who they then assassinate.

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(from the quarry for The Runiad – a work in progress)

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See also – https://anthonyhowelljournal.com/2025/04/02/the-runiad-books-1-to-21/