Our Man in Europe/dave delacroix/ "Petrified Forest - Petrified Tourists!"
POSTURED, they lounge on a beach, Mediterranean, someplace, promenade-park bench, or seated in a Trattoria, Cafe, FROZEN - in limbo - or upstairs ALBERGO, on a cut-price Queen size bed. They are moulded, grey, sometimes SILVER, "petrified", and sit or lay, there is no aroma. They are long dead. And by their side? In wallets, hand-bags, unfinished petrified postcards or Cell phones, Net-books, Lap-tops, all petrified, frazzled?...U get close with a small chisel-hammer, U can chip off a fore-arm, a Petrified head, maybe a finger/toe? An exhibit for your home town Den?
Dead, dead, and...quite in mourning: Petrified-God-damn-CHALK! Yet their SURROUNDINGS, all vibrant and alive. Downright INTACT!. The usual vacation racket continues? Vendors WAIL. Lovers audibly fight. Ragazzi-hullabaloo! Traffic shunts, honks, then flows? And small fishing craft hail the quay, made it safe home with their catch? Cash register ring! ...Only the Tourists, "petrified", out of SYNC, in eternal, decayed-preservation, FORGE sinew... in a dimension of their own singular making.
c 2015/davedelacroix/modica-Sicily, Italia.
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