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Recently I was lucky to be taken on a trip abroad, by train, to a city on the continent- as we used to say. I won’t name the city (though it’s not that hard to guess) for the same reason I’ve given this poem the title above- because it’s not an attempt to express anything essential about the city in question, just to record the experiences of a happy tourist.

Postcard from ———-


City of no black socks on a Sunday

Push Hands surrounded by poor municipal horticulture

Mopeds, VanVan and Triumph

Children, who can speak French, bundled into cuteness against the cold

Suzanne and Sam’s resting space

Still filthy

And jerky brakes are not powerful

Or it doesn’t translate

Universal centre of the base layer

And camping clothes.

Meticulously polite and definitely



Leather and fur and old ladies coiffeurs indistinguishable from fur

Corduroy and cashmere

Dyed hair like straw, matchstick legs a certain, no a fixed, style

A single hill, a single view, a raised collar and perhaps an eyebrow

A taste for Italian pop

And there really are a lot of cinemas

Definitely not a city for crane shots

Of course Bill Burroughes is still here he just made it, hit it-

“El hombre invisible at last ya dig kid”

And the world’s best graffiti for sure

And every exciting foreign place you go there are people there already dreaming of other exciting foreign places

Sau-sel-it-o, say it slow

Like “Calypso is like so”