ENCOUNTER

The words are material

They are in the world

They have shapes, with edges and faces

They’re coated with bright Indian pink icing

She reads A B C D E. First in her head. Then aloud. She mouths them. They taste different.

 A and D do not agree with her. They don’t taste good. B is sweet and sour. C is sticky. E is warm but bland.

They are arranged in a proposition that made her park the car on the roadside and take a snapshot with her mobile phone.

How dare you?

Provoking me!

She let them in.   

Outside penetrates inside.

The  sugarcoated words drill their way inside her,

Possessing her.

Who is speaking?

She is the receiver of a text that has no identifiable author.

Forced in a violent encounter in the non-place of a West London street. 

The disembodied words speak for an absent collective sender.

The cliché  has turned into a slogan.

She is spoken by a language she can no longer call her own

(...)