FROM A BUS STOP
A poem written
looking back at Surfer's Paradise (Gold Coast Australia) from a
distance. However it is not meant as a critique merely of that
specific place but rather of a certain sort of urban development in
general. That which is alluring from a distance often turns into
something else on close inspection and I think that is fairly
characteristic of "coca-cola" civilisation.
FROM A BUS STOP
In east blue haze
skyscrapers raise
a ghost metropolis.
Pale blue- and yellow-gray,
set far away,
they seem great crystals grown on this
circumference of day.
Behind them clouds begin to bloom
through humid summer afternoon.
Their white curves brush
past straight-line shapes,
presaging rising storm, perhaps.
Ah, constructs of the abstract gaze,
high buildings of the busy life,
in tones of faded page and ash,
I own you paint some mineral paradise
unless, of course, I come up close,
then all turns into concrete and to trash.
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