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.
