Image by Christine Renney

We are divided but we all believe in the City.  How could we not?  The evidence is everywhere.  We have the artefacts and the photographs.  It is our story and, if we are unable to understand yet, we can at least know it and we are putting it in order, into sequence.  It is a good story filled with great feats, a catalogue of achievement but it is the City that has invaded our thoughts and has captured our collective consciousness.  Yes, we believe in the City but it is more than this.  We worship it.  The City with its tall buildings and narrow streets teaming with life, all nationalities and cultures colliding and co-existing and surviving.  The City is that to which we aspire. 

But we are divided.  There are those who believe we should begin again and rebuild the City, no matter how long it may take.  But there are others who are convinced that the City still exists and we know of course that there was more than one, possibly hundreds.  And this growing faction insists our mission should be to search for it.  To find the City and infiltrate it.  That this is the way in which we should begin again. 


Chris R-1-219

Image by Christine Renney

All eyes on the piano stool toting murderer
A hundred wooden splintered shards at his feet
Sun days he’d rocked and rolled, 1957
Where had the motherfuckers been then?
Leather jacketed greasy long hairs
They looked like girls
But not his kind of girls
Ferridays, pretty girls dancing
Big legged
In tight summer dresses
Wickedly guiding
Tongue and teeth
Hands and hips
Putting the Devil in his head and in his hands
Pumping Country songs
Any kind of songs
Even Church songs
Behind him sulking
Whispering in his ear
He swung his head back and
Laughed and leered
Giving them what they wanted