|
Upon Charles Bridge he's frozen in a gesture, |
|
looks like he's waiting for a moment to arrive, |
|
some special currency to connect him to the zeitgeist... |
|
snakes alive! |
|
He's traipsed around the towns, the landmarks of Old Europe, |
|
looking to link between the present and the past |
|
and here at last he feels ghosts crowding in around him |
|
for the photograph. |
|
All that he wants to be |
|
an image of mystery; |
|
a backdrop, a profile, a choice location, |
|
feeding his imagination. |
|
Instead of memories to hold him in the game |
|
he'd rather wrap time's frame around him. |
|
No need for memories, they all feel much the same, |
|
he'd rather stay in character. |
|
A centre spread in a paper, |
|
an unpicked thread in a magazine. |
|
He's lost himself in being here so often. |
|
Though life's got harder as the focus softened. |
|
he's made his only purpose the pursuit |
|
of posing for the perfect photograph. |
|
Out of shot the light's bleeding |
|
and time comes apart at the seams. |
|
He'll disappear, it's nearly time, |
|
the shutter's opening. |
|
And now exposure's come, |
|
chiaroscuro |
|
and he's all transparency in the aperture, |
|
gone to the ghosts. |
|
They'll hold him close, |
|
metamorphosed |
|
in the perfect pose. |
