Black Dot

by on August 4, 2020 :: 0 comments

photo "Got a Black Spot/Black Dot of Death" by Tyler Malone

I had arranged a meeting in the park with the woman who wrote the found poem. When she arrived she was carrying a tattered folding umbrella. She looked at me and said, I think I’ve eaten a whole block of cocaine. Have you ever broken your ankle?

She sat on the bench and removed a hairbrush then proceeded to drag it across her head. I haven’t washed my hair for a week, she said, rather too proudly, I thought. She threw the brush at a nearby rubbish bin but missed and it landed on the path.

She was wearing black. All black. Her only makeup was black eyeshadow. She had what I would describe as smoky eyes. I didn’t get a chance to tell her that before she lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply before blowing the smoke at me.

She asked me to look into her left eye (smoky in more ways than one). Do you think I need an eye test? I had to say yes because, in fact, both her eyes were bloodshot. Oh, that’s good, she said. I like eye tests. I think I’m obsessed with eye tests.

I noticed a small black dot on the inside of her left index finger. What’s the dot about? I asked. My tone was, I thought, inquisitive but polite.

It’s an experimental tattoo, she said. Then she started to emit a high-pitched whine.

I covered my ears. That’s the sound of the tattoo gun, she said. It sounded more like a dentist’s drill, but I didn’t care to disabuse her at this stage for fear of physical violence.

She started shouting for no apparent reason. DO YOU LIKE BAUHAUS? I asked whether she meant the late 70s band or the Modernist movement. She paused to adopt a disdainful stare, using a head tilt to emphasize the effect.

Before I could share my theory that Bauhaus (the late 70s band), were influenced by so-called kraut rock before they developed their goth music style, she got up and walked off, muttering, nobody likes a smart-arse.

I can’t recall her name. I think she may have been called Elizabeth, but perhaps she was just called Dot.

editors note:

These are the moments we live for. Don’t die for them, but live and live curious enough to love them all the more. They’re the dots that connect us. ~ Tyler Malone

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