By Alan Ford
A platform littered with blurred faces of half-remembered news of departed days, like an old newspaper left on an empty train. There’s a waiting-room of forgotten names of make-believe commuters leaving imaginary footsteps where unreal spirits tread. On the dust ridden floor lies the outline of a hobo. Above it a torn curtain, a ragged reminder of absent lives. High above you will see a leaking roof like tears for the missing, leaving the wet hours to dry what remains. In the neglect outside you will notice a rain-pitted track as the hours drain away gathering lost thoughts of memories left to rust. If you look through a broken window you will see the shattered smile of a stopped clock where time now sleeps. But there are no lighter moments, only ill-lit desires of wasted history that cannot recreate the past.
A submarine, a torpedo a fatal plunge into the ocean. No more tomorrows God not present. Love is drowning hate has surfaced indifference is floundering for death can’t swim. A child’s voice not seen, just heard a small scrap at sea as a seagull squawks. Faith is submerging as a crucifix floats by only Hope is baptized with prayers unanswered. Paying homage to wealth as luxurious corpses sink. Riches are no asset as fool’s gold lies rusting. A museum lies on the sea-bed entry is free the artefacts of life are anchored by history. A radio message bleeps. World not speaking nothing to say death has no signal.
Is it art or politics that make statues come to life? A form of afterlife on a plinth. Like dying twice. Statues have history. They are not neutral. They represent our approval but whose epitaph should we celebrate? Effigies rely on peoples ignorance. But who were they? Public benefactors or private tyrants. It’s like looking at yesterdays dark in today’s light. Are they figures sculpted from old wrongs? Highly polished versions of bygone days that reflect a former gleam of glory. But whose and why? They are memorials to personal wealth and status. Should we pay homage to almighty money? Would that be like bestowing a kiss in a nightmare? If reputations are ruined should they be restored? Can they be redeemed by revealing displays in public parks? For time has conspired to delude us. Celebrations of the past can betray the present. Yesterday’s birth, todays funeral. So do we need to carry a dead weight upon our past? A hostile encounter, a posthumous demand for dead ideas whose time has passed?