Le Sang, he sang - le sang et le vin, the sang real, le sang des rois, cutting the flesh with secateurs, among the Moroccans, smoking hash, breaking the grapes and allowing the juice to flow, the sting of acid in the cut. Weighing the grapes in the palm of your hand, in your mind's eye; choosing, selecting, tasting. Groping. Red wine stains, on clothes, arms, hands. Shit under the fingernails. The fork lift, glorious, aloft in the sunshine, holding me up. Firm flesh moving beneath your hand, juice on your fingertips - the way a solid, unrotten bunch feels; dense, no spaces between the grapes, heavy, thick with purpose. throbbing with life. The exquisite animal. Who needs six hours sleep? Passed, dreamlessly, when all else is bright and colourful. Muddy wrack of the first day's harvest changes to the deep wine-dark overnight, baptised, risen, feeding upon itself to grow, blindfolded, hidden away in dark rooms, pumping, groaning, macerated and abused, becoming stronger. Grapes as the holographic fragments of all wine, all blood, little machines, powered by them, coursing away, flickering down hoses and swallowed up, savoured and consumed.

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