There is in the photograph you’re holding
someone taking a snapshot
of someone else posing
for someone else’s camera –
who’s being photographed by somebody
taking a picture to post online,
and in turn is getting snapped
by others taking shots
who without knowing it
are clicked for posterity
forever pointing lenses at
others in others’ images
that reduce to a single dot on the horizon,
which upon magnification
turns out to be you,
holding a photograph
of someone taking a snapshot..
In the darkest hour
they came for it,
bound and gagged it
put a hood over it;
it got in the car with them
they drove miles
along deserted country roads
and then they,
stopped..
bound,gagged and hooded
they manhandled it
out of the car,
marched it across
a field;
Somewhere in the distance
a church bell tolled;
they didn’t ask if it had
anything it wanted to say
before sentence was carried out..
A few minutes later the car departed,
and the field lay undisturbed once more,
now home to an unmarked grave..
The flim flam man
making you a deal
showing you the prize
smiling at you
with a glint in his eyes;
The flim flam man
working hard for those
who’ve got things to sell
things they need to tell
just as their “good” intentions
are paving
your road to..
Trailing in the wake of Lions,
Hyenas come to feast on the carcass
of someone else’s name;
Shattered windows,
Burned out cars,
Looted Stores,
Toppled statues;
Triumphant Vandal hordes
breaking the gates of Rome,
trampling its glories,
defecating on Temple steps;
Anarchy like lava
spewing from a volcano’s maw
shrouding the days
in its ashen nights
and its silence drowning our screams.
On a day of
no particular significance,
where nothing especially
happened,
no report was made
no notes were taken,
nor behaviour observed;
the absence of animation
accumulated
throughout the day,
leaving public spaces uninhabited
the flora and fauna
undisturbed and unmolested;
Absence this your sting,
Emptiness this is your victory.
” A wop-boppa-loop-bop..”,
Cutting sharp
like a razor thro’ old silk,
your timbre broke
a thousand taboos
set racing a million heartbeats
beating along with,
your three minute records,
you were vinyl;
Long Tall Sally
lighting up the ether
like the fourth of July,
Tutti Frutti painting gaudy colors
on a monochrome radio dial;
you were engine of the sock-hop ball,
you were Rock
and Roll,
” a-wop-bam-boom!”
Stark geometric lines
intersecting clean marble
and steel;
horizonless concourses
deserted entrance halls,
empty corridors
vacant escalators
ascending,
descending
in relentless
progression;
Walls hyphenated
with reminders
to purchase,
to consume
bellowing mutely
into the void;
shimmering platform mirrors,
clipped automated announcements,
data screens streaming
their silent prophecies;
Inexorable arrivals
whooshing
and rumbling,
debouching into
the gleaming Now
of a glass-towered
morning amid its
awakening rage
there on
the bench
face down,
his skin again
punctured,
no-one.
We went into the Valley of Elah
looking for victory and reasons to carry on ,
when we got there those reasons had gone ;
they’d quietly slipped away
leaving us with nothing more to say ;
when we got back
we didn’t recognise ourselves ,
we looked at our faces in the mirror
that only showed someone else ;
all our words too had their meaning changed
for something that we couldn’t understand ,
and we who were born here
became strangers in our own land .
Each one individual
different from the last,
still spiral in shape
and glowing with colour,
but different
as if each seperate one
has its own vocation,
growing and glowing to
the peak of its form,
or jumping lemming-like
to an inevitable end,
before it has lived
nipped in the bud and then
crushed underfoot again and again;
Then the rebel piece
causes maximum disturbance
sticks to its creator
for another lease of life,
then lies on its back
backlash and then,
the tool hits the jump
and me jumping back,
to panic for a handle,
yet another false mistake
while the rebel fits to
its own metallic waste,
and I know he’s gone for good;
I wonder should I tell them
the science of their lives?
their ductile strength,
their malleability
or how less longer
they live in the heat,
or should I keep them
young in my own imagination,
where boredom is
the furthest place away?
(Martin Nicholson has asserted his authorial rights in this work)
Giant,
glossy,
glamorous
coffee table magazines,
with those portraiture pictures
that capture those
” just so ” glances,
contemplative
meditative,
with that pristine air
of purposeful confidence,
of a knowing what lies ahead;
and the apparel just so,
the complexion just so,
hair,eyes,nose and teeth just so,
of shop window dummies
playing at being us.
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