Chin chiller

Here in OUSA Belgium we believe in taking it on the chin, even if makes you go a funny sepia shade.

This is actually with a new camera that does more, but I think has slightly grainier pictures than the old one.

Apologies for not updating this blog more often - I'm feeling a bit lazy and summery. It's all I can do to revise stuff like this - if you think this is bad, you should have read the first version.

TANGO

A hundredweight of bread

moves down a frosty hill

to Karl the baker

cheeping an old song

from exotic toothed birds.

Behind him, a clapped out bus

(not green, not red, but something between,

like the surface of eyes in a Javanese film)

wheezes like a dying cult

as schoolkids pick out loam

from finger-nails not yet grown.

The bread is nearer now.

In the crystal sight

of a winter's day

(not hot, not cold but fashionably indirect

coolly half-finished

like a carte de visite for a future dream)

ghost Greek Gods laugh silently

their chests as devastated as stars

glued to a red-grey sky.

The bus roars off

its petrochemical jerk makes trees dance along:

their arms scratching their swift-growing girths.

Colin sits on the saddened ground

as a wall of bread

(not high, not low, just large enough to slay)

stops his song.