Christopher Hansard:[street view]

on the ramparts of the

bank

covered from the world

the old woman sits

regarded as a dung pile

by those

in shoes

that reflect blood and glory

a man dressed in a whiter than white suit

appears in light

is he an angel come to save the human dung pile ?

(on closer inspection)

there striding as if he were

Atlas freed

of his burden

he carries the skinned carcass of a pig

with its head facing forward

its expression is one of shock

as if to say,

‘is this what life was all about?’

does the man in white

know he is a carrier of death?

he provides for his family

in some other dimension

the scene may well be

reversed

viewing the street

it narrows into

an enclave

with a high wall

and a single

blue

door

what will happen if you pass through it?

look for

blue doors

a street is a time line

a mental construct made real

can you not feel the ambition

that gave birth to the streets

you walk in?

all streets in the end

are a cypher for the alphabet

and a measuring stick for broken commerce

a blackboard for memories

a list that goes from

A to Z