oranges is not the lonely fruit

Anthony Burgess and \’A Clockwork Orange\’; Jeanette Winterson\’s \’Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit\’; Mark E. Smith\’s \’I Am Kurious Oranj\’.

Save it for evengelists high on fuzzy felted sadism. Bursting segments of citrus heresy.

Orange is Ludwig ripening in the sun. Jaundiced droogs and rapists. Pez dispensers and marching bands; orange is the colour of bigotry.

Well. Tangerine is a different matter, a connotation lacking in orange; a hint of marzipan and the exotic. Open your lips to speak of tangerine and one is carpeted away on an Arabic odyssey. An oud or its distant cousin. Tangerine sparkles with Christmas. Of cleavage and all the trimmings. And then there are clementines. Blood red and faintly obseidian, whispering of Marrekech. The suspicion of inherited wealth. Paul Bowles and Bill Burroughs asleep in the garden.

It is a thin family line. The intermarriage between one fruit and and another. High yeller and damson orange.

I am a pallid Celt with Slavic leanings. Iberian appetites. Wan would be too polite.


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