Jamming

The train pulled into the platform at an unscheduled stop, adding time to an already lengthy journey. In a dusty compartment a young woman, tired and slightly dishelleved, was drifting in and out of the type of shallow consciousness that is only accessible when travelling, kept awake with the fear of a stop being missed. The conductor poked his head into the compartment, counting people, fussing over tickets, apologising for the delay. She handed over her well-worn yellow slip and after small pleasantries were exchanged she sank back into her previous state of fluctuating consciousness. The faces of the strangers out on the platform were conf

Save me in your screen-print Dip me in your sepia. Allow us to flow through the times, places and faces Of the art that came before us. We shall melt in the brushstrokes And dance across the watercolour bridges Capture that moment, The freeze-frame of happiness The click of the shutter snapping The steady thud of our hearts Beating faster, Mirroring the movements Each one a reaction to its predecessor Every one more extreme. Come, entwine with me Wisp through the water, like the colour pigments Free from the brush. Free from everything. Preserved, snapped, saved. Idolised and ignored. Painted and printed. Now we are free.

I've got a city of gold, Stand in awe and wonder, Basque in the reflection it casts - reflect on its cruel solidarity. Slave labour, miners and smelters old, Put forth their lives for this town. A town that grew with greed and ignorance, Lusting for something more. I owned a city of gold Hate and adored in equal measure But the carats were not enough to fill the swelling need. In the city of gold Stood a stone statue. Carved by masons skilled Destroyed by smelting, killed.