POSTCARDS OF NO-MAN’S-LAND:
A Trabant procession appears right of picture, exits stage left.
A little street circus for the tourist camera, a smile, a grin,
a nostalgic giggle for the digital clickers, turn side on, tilt
your head & smile, smile, smile – Gurning for lenses at the Wall.
Point & click, click, click, kiss. Razor wire scribbles, outsider
daubs, quant, covers-band politicking in paint. Remembering a time
we would’ve been shot just for standing here. Now it’s a taxi ride,
a stroll, a drunk’s stumble, a lover’s moon. Jazzer blows a horn,
back against the wall, selling CD’s in a bitter wind to the
transient few, across the road, the giant pixel screen on another
branded arena proclaims the fabulous names, the ten commandments
of platinum international artists queuing to deliver their
multi-million dollar merchandise.