A ride in a dirty train from a sun soaked city where stark shadows dance
naked above the heads of impassive shoppers.
A ride in a dirty train whose carriages stink of cold violence, strewn
with free papers, mangled sculptures of frustration.
Riding on a dirty train, vignettes of a trackside world, crafts & cold drafts
round the legs of skimpy jeans & summer trainers.
Dirty trains, imagined only in other countries, somewhere else,
never here, but somehow always.
Through the windows of a dirty train – hope, fast random images
of tenacious lives, outsiders, Art Brut,
encampments along the rim of the world.