Another Egypt

Egypt in reverse. Sand-drummers land, partially-intact, on the film-set, their token beards aflame. Listen, Susan, and see if I'm not right: "these people are not good for you - they drink green water and gamble with your two remaining eyes."

We were outside Alexandria, shooting Oh Alison, My Shame is Still a Burden when they came - bass-drums crinkled, then unfurled - kicking at the endless mica and smirking at my statues. Drummers, please be aware: the desert is ashamed of me now; my tomb is sickly and thin - pale abandoned turrets touch the sky, wrapped in ragged legal bandages from a local pharmacy.

Shemen uncoil asp-like in the ruby shrines; their iris-lensed eyes are violent dice, rolled by shrunken sand-gamblers in the ochre summer snows. A mirage erupts and re-configures your face. Snake-Queen Q listens to the hissing tapes unwind, and nods, her hooded eyes olive-green, like the water in your glass.

Biscuit-tin bravado - I'd shoot you for a penny, luv! - but common-sense prevailed: we found a snare-drum hidden inside a glowing vault, its drum-skin wet with snake-cum in the glistening evening light.

When the credits rolled my name was not A Name, just a list of sudden toxins assembled by the wind.