Friday, March 16, 2007


Black greyed into white a nightmare of bicycling
over childhood roads harried peaceless tomorrow came a mirage packed in hypodermic the city we lived in then was not of your making
it was built by sculptors in the narcotic rooms of Stanley Street we solved time an error in judgement it was stolen by the bosses and marketed as the eight hour day
Waking under a bridge in Canberra to chill scrawl
seeing the designs we had painted on its concrete like gnawed
fresco
Venice with merchants feasting while Cimabue sank deeper into
cobweb
as the huns approached in skin boats
back in the world Rick and George on the morgue-lists of morning one dead of hunger the other of overdose their ethics precluded
them
from the Great Society they are with the angels now
I dremt of satori a sudden crystal wherein civilisation was seen more truly than with cameras but it was your world not this yours is a glut of silent martyrs money and carbon monoxide
I dremt of next week perhaps then we would eat again sleep in a
house again
perhaps we would wake to find humanity where at present freedom is obsolete and honour a heresy. Innocently I dremt that madness passes like a dream.

Michael Dransfield, That Which We Call a Rose
And Banksy
(many thanks to you my love)

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