Tuesday, 23 December 2014

No Christmas Markets

What we were met with was not assembly
But aftermath
The carcass spread out, shaking itself
Life the man under the lamp.
People were no longer shaken
By the hand or the offering
Of stall-desperate suffering
No longer fed with formations of colour
It is not snow  that is flaking
But yesterday’s imagery.
A handprint reaches out
From a coffee-cup cast aside
In the morning, the plastic
Strengthens the spine
Of the monstrous
The city is porous
The top-later still  dries
To the feet in the chorus.
What came before us
Was known as culture

-          Why? 

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