ring-road. twilight. fast food.

                                       something saved from history.

                                                           auto motif writing

                                                                              1998-1999

            (part i)

            ring-road. twilight. fast-food. something saved
            from history. don’t get yr ticket stamped,
            make the most of the automation. all this
            metal on the roads. tell it like it is. ‘wet roads
            glisten’. what if the cash crop fails. one city
            after another. National Expresso. Inter City.
            thumb & middle finger. view from the
            window. industry, out of town & inner city,
            fast-food multiplex, who doesn’t feel the loss
            of all this space?

            (part ii) 

            imaginitive cities of harmony. who are the
            people whose lives are here. pedestrianisation.
            gentrification. cycleways. grafitti art. litter on the streets.
            CCTV but whose watching me. which one of
            us this city for? we inherit everything, change
            nothing. everyone of us a squatter. who
            remembers the shape of the land beneath these
            streets? who knows the shapes beneath their
            feet? frustration and anxiety are the biggest
            fashions, but we’re in denial. as I weed my
            allotment, revealing the earth, sift & grind till
            its good again for growing; so too these
            buildings, tied up in knots, will crumble and
            fall

            (part iii)

            watching people in their clean world. in a
            dream world. drifting. sitting at café tables
            waiting for answers. biding time, figuring out,
            myself, the world around, digging thru the
            past, all over again. exploring freedom.
            feeling good. listening to what my mind says.
            There isn’t an infinite amount of time; this
            will all run out, eventually. what you wanna
            do?

(postscript)

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