Tuesday, November 14, 2017

Tuesday Poem: "Hard-Wired" by Jenny Xie

A misfortune can swell
for a long, long time in the mind.

While goodness shrinks

down to a hard shell.

I reach for the hammer,

but it doesn't crack.

Evolutionarily, it makes sense.

These fishbone days, this fatty grief.

by Jenny Xie

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Tuesday, November 7, 2017

Tuesday Poem: "They'll say: "She must be from another country" by Imtiaz Dharker

When I can’t comprehend
why they’re burning books

or slashing paintings,

when they can’t bear to look

at god’s own nakedness,

when they ban the film

and gut the seats to stop the play

and I ask why

they just smile and say,

‘She must be

from another country.’

When I speak on the phone

and the vowel sounds are off

when the consonants are hard

and they should be soft,

they’ll catch on at once

they’ll pin it down

they’ll explain it right away

to their own satisfaction,

they’ll cluck their tongues

and say,

‘She must be

from another country.’

When my mouth goes up

instead of down,

when I wear a tablecloth

to go to town,

when they suspect I’m black

or hear I’m gay

they won’t be surprised,

they’ll purse their lips

and say,

‘She must be

from another country.’

When I eat up the olives

and spit out the pits

when I yawn at the opera

in the tragic bits

when I pee in the vineyard

as if it were Bombay,

flaunting my bare ass

covering my face

laughing through my hands

they’ll turn away,

shake their heads quite sadly,

‘She doesn’t know any better,’

they’ll say,

‘She must be

from another country.’

Maybe there is a country

where all of us live,

all of us freaks

who aren’t able to give

our loyalty to fat old fools,

the crooks and thugs

who wear the uniform

that gives them the right

to wave a flag,

puff out their chests,

put their feet on our necks,

and break their own rules.

But from where we are

it doesn’t look like a country,    

it’s more like the cracks

that grow between borders

behind their backs.

That’s where I live.

And I’ll be happy to say,

‘I never learned your customs.

I don’t remember your language

or know your ways.

I must be

from another country.’

by Imtiaz Dharker

For more information on poet, Imtiaz Dharker, see:

Tuesday, October 31, 2017

Tuesday Poem: "Crawfordsville Confidential" by G.E. Murray

In the land of milk and cream delivered early
and daily, and always in glass bottles, we care
about good grooming and, of course, news
of slurs and curs ... Can it really be that home
becomes a place to be stranded?
“I don’t see a single storm cloud
anywhere in the sky, but I can sure smell rain,”
out on the edge of Crawfordsville, Indiana,
where the answers and questions become identical
as evil twins.
Basketball ghosts bounce and sweat again
in that second-floor gym in the middle of July—
that never-to-be-forgotten home
of the first-ever Boys State Championship.
Rusty jump shots and long-ago corner hooks
rim out in a stream of dusted sunlight.
“Just to play the game, don’t you know,
you know, no matter how much the sacrifice ... ”
How searing afternoon’s vagueness now,
dreamed in a daylong haze of headache pills
downed at the General Lew Wallace Motor Lodge:
how the arc of the ball rises
to echoes of split-jump cheers
in lubricated air, when phantom bodies
strive and leap and go prostrate
to that squeak of rubber on polished wood—
in a game of shirts and skins.
You can only wonder how Ezra Pound dissected his time here,
among tractors and proctors and temples of antebellum style,
as he cooed sweet Greek in the ear
of his secular Madonna ... Just now, two pigeons
greet first daylight on the Green of Wabash College.
Something to be said for being scandalized silly,
and in more than one language
when life becomes holier than the Crusades.
And what’s more—didactic passions
eventually drive you insane, thinks young EP, so what?
Sew buttons, ha!
And make it new always ... and always
leave the door cracked open, a light on,
and one foot on the floor.
“The meatloaf here’s not very good,”
warns waitress Lucy, a pretty girl
with a tooth missing. Indifferently,
day proceeds utterly.
Off Country Road X-10, out by Carcus Creek,
driving past Minnie Betts’s florist shop
and what’s left of the old city jail,
you figure each small detail adds
glory to any story.
                            “Relax,” says Elton Bidwell,
the county’s dead-buzzard collector,
“I’ll take care of us all
when we com’ on home.”
The town goes dark in a killer storm.
Collective forgetting and forgiving
occurs. But safety comes in many forms.
In this vast black you get to thinking
about giddy joys and little sorrows,
the curse of full employment at minimum wage,
and those conspicuous professors—
their bowties and braces speaking to the ages
and marking moments of learned unworthiness.
Maybe, it’s vacuum-packed fear
in a stage-managed town. Time to guess
what’s behind each tiny crime and local leer,
at once rancorous and baffling. Strangers
need not apply. A few lights click on
at the Shortstop Grille. These cruel weathers
turn asphalt slick. The old intramurals begin again.
Early Sunday morning and a drunken Elton Bidwell
is strung like a scarecrow on his front porch swing,
deposited by Grand Wizards from the Odd Fellows Lodge bar
late last night—reminder to those devoted folks
heading up Church Street with songbooks in hand,
that home sure proves just another place to be stranded. 
by G. E. Murray
For more information about poet, G.E. Murray, see: 


Tuesday, October 24, 2017

Tuesday Poem: "Symposium" by Paul Muldoon

You can bring a horse to water but you can't make it hold
its nose to the grindstone and hunt with the hounds.

Every dog has a stitch in time. Two heads? You've been sold

one good turn. One good turn deserves a bird in the hand.

A bird in the hand is better than no bread.

To have your cake is to pay Paul.

Make hay while you can still hit the nail on the head.

For want of a nail the sky might fall.

People in glass houses can't see the wood

for the new broom. Rome wasn't built between two stools.

Empty vessels wait for no man.

A hair of the dog is a friend indeed.

There's no fool like the fool

who's shot his bolt. There's no smoke after the horse is gone.

by Paul Muldoon

Photo Credit: Beowulf Sheehan

For more information about the poet, Paul Muldoon, see:

Saturday, October 21, 2017

Poem in support of the #MeToo Campaign: "Vulture" by Andrew M. Bell

Was it ever about the sex, Harvey?
Or, intoxicated by power,
did you believe you were beyond morality,
above the law?
Sooner or later, Harvey,
it all comes home to roost.

Tuesday, October 17, 2017

Tuesday Poem: "U Boat Morning, 1914" by Alan Gould

will come as we perform the mundane toil,
say, tossing the breakfast scraps astern,

or washing down the maindeck under the oblongs

of sail-shadow. The morning sun

will mint its coins across a lazy sea,

the weather tacks and sheets will rise and fall

in languid intersectings of the sea-rim.

And there, so sudden, ordinary, too close

to dodge, or do anything about but wait for

with quiet interest, will be the thing of hearsay,

cigar profile, stub tower, little gun, so credible,

for all that it will be the first such vessel

we will have seen outside some journal's

crude picture.

Through his loudhailer,

the officer will be polite, but firm,

reading the English translation from a card.

Fifteen minutes. We'll stow such extra food,

water, charts, as time will allow,

also oilskins, a mouth organ, a piece

of unfinished scrimshaw perhaps, but not clothes,

then lower the boats, and stand off from the barque

at the distance we will have been directed to.

Oddest for our sense of what is proper

will be the sight of the helm unmanned out there

in open sea.

And this will be the manner

a moment in time will surface to say, Of course

your lives are free, of course they are compelled,

as we watch, quiescent, attentive, the lifeboats,

gentle as hammock-sway in the swell beneath us,

the little gun puffing its little smoke,

and thin smoke oozing from somewhere on board.

Gradually our home will lean into

its odd stricken angle, and spill wheatgrain

from the holes in her side, slipping under,

natural as a sleeper turning under blankets.

When it is done, the captain will salute us

just once, the submarine chug away, routine

as a mailboat.

And without undue hardship

we will survive, but no-one there will serve

in sailing ships again. This is how

an ancient confidence will vanish

casually like a fashion in jokes. Instead

we'll live into a time strange to us,

we'll live aware of how the unborn have

their faces turned away from all we took

for granted, as, stubborn or quizzical, we will

submit to someone else's scheme of what

is pressing, waste on the floor of life's renewal.

And if this quiet impending morning leaves

one thought in mind, it might be wheatgrain

fanning from a ship across the ocean's dark

like brassy beads, like fabulous golden blood.

by Alan Gould

For more information about the poet, Alan Gould, see:

Tuesday, September 19, 2017

Tuesday Poem: "At Days Bay" by James K. Baxter

To lie on a beach after
looking at old poems: how

slow untroubled by any

grouch of mine or yours, Father

Ocean tumbles in the bay

alike with solitary


divers, cripples, yelling girls

and pipestem kids. He does what

suits us all; and somewhere — there,

out there, where the high tight sails

are going — he wears a white

death flag of foam for us, far


out, for when we want it. So

on Gea’s breast, the broad nurse

who bears with me, I think of

adolescence: that sad boy

I was, thoughts crusted with ice

on the treadmill of self-love,


Narcissus damned, who yet brought

like a coal in a hallow

stalk, the seed of fire that runs

through my veins now. I praise that

sad boy now, who having no

hope, did not blow out his brains.

by James K. Baxter

For more information about the poet, James K. Baxter, see:

Tuesday, September 12, 2017

Tuesday Poem: "Dream of a Slave" by Gavin Ewart

I want to be carried, heavily sedated,
into a waiting aircraft.

I want to collapse from nervous exhaustion.

I want to bow my head like Samson

and bring down with me

the top ten advertising agencies.

I want to see the little bosses

vanish like harmless fairies.

I want the pantomime to be over,

the circus empty.

I want what is real to establish itself,

my children to prevail,

to live happy ever after

in this world that worships the preposterous.

It is better to be a scribe

than hacking at the salt mines,

heaving the building blocks.

Everybody wants to be a scribe.

But I want out. I want non-existence.

A passive dream, a future for my children.

by Gavin Ewart

For more information about poet, Gavin Ewart, see:

Tuesday, September 5, 2017

Tuesday Poem: "Afternoons" by Jorge H. Aigla

Those afternoons, the Saturdays of my tender childhood
in Mexico City

were just lovely.

It was the time when fathers

were one on one with their sons,

and took them to see friends, have an ice,

talk in the park, or to intriguing stores

from their youth.

I remember going to a store

that sold mountain climbing equipment:

my father knew “The Goat,”

one of the climbers of the great Popocatepetl,

and he would show us boots, ropes, and hammers,

and photographs of the Valley of Mexico and of snow.

Another place in my fantast was a corner

in the old section of the city,

where they sold model airplanes

with gasoline engines;

I would watch the wealthy kids buy

and we in our dreams would fly.

Another place was the small shop of the Japanese man, Osawa,

who sold shells, butterflies, spiders, beetles,

and other vermin and dried creepers;

for a few pesos one could well

enlarge a modest collection.

A labyrinth in the basement of a mansion

led one to the abode of the Old Catalán

who sold stamps and postal seals;

he had in his possession the first stamp of Juárez,

and promised never to sell it,

though perhaps, he might give it to me some day.

In a garage Don Leopoldo sold supplies for engineers:

slide rules with many rows, squares,

fine pens, india ink, complicated compasses,

and with all this my father’s friend

traced a world for me.

Those crammed afternoons, already abandoned,

shadowed by death,

undone by a fast and coarse world,

taught me what it is to fill out

the alertness of time.

by Jorge H. Aigla

For more information about the poet, Jorge H. Aigla, see:

Tuesday, August 29, 2017

Tuesday Poem: "Happily Planting the Beans Too Early" by Jack Gilbert

I waited until the sun was going down
to plant the bean seedlings. I was

beginning on the peas when the phone rang.

It was a long conversation about what

living this way in the woods might

be doing to me. It was dark by the time

I finished. Made tuna fish sandwiches

and read the second half of a novel.

Found myself out in the April moonlight

putting the rest of the pea shoots into

the soft earth. It was after midnight.

There was a bird calling intermittently

and I could hear the stream down below.

She was probably right about me getting

strange. After all, Bashō and Tolstoy

at the end were at least going somewhere. 

by Jack Gilbert

For more information about poet, Jack Gilbert, see:


Tuesday, August 22, 2017

Tuesday Poem: "The Second Going" by Philip Levine

Again the
day begins, only

no one wants its sanity

or its blinding clarity. Daylight is

not what we came all this way for. A

pinch of salt, a drop of schnapps in our cup

of tears, the ticket to the life to come, a short life of

long nights & absent dawns & a little mercy in the tea.

by Philip Levine
Image result for philip levine poet

For more information about poet, Philip Levine, see:


Tuesday, August 15, 2017

Tuesday Poem: "America" by Claude McKay

Although she feeds me bread of bitterness,
And sinks into my throat her tiger’s tooth,
Stealing my breath of life, I will confess
I love this cultured hell that tests my youth!
Her vigor flows like tides into my blood,
Giving me strength erect against her hate.
Her bigness sweeps my being like a flood.
Yet as a rebel fronts a king in state,
I stand within her walls with not a shred
Of terror, malice, not a word of jeer.
Darkly I gaze into the days ahead,
And see her might and granite wonders there,
Beneath the touch of Time’s unerring hand,
Like priceless treasures sinking in the sand.

by Claude McKay

For more information on the poet, Claude McKay, see:

Tuesday, August 8, 2017

Tuesday Poem: "Down the back of the chair" by Margaret Mahy

Our car is slow to start and go. We can’t afford a new one.
Now if you please, Dad’s lost the keys. We’re facing rack and ruin.
No car, no work! No work no pay!
We’re getting poorer day by day.
No wonder Dad is turning grey.
The morning is a blue one.

Nothing but dockets in his pockets.
Raging with despair
Dad acts appalled! Though nearly bald
He tries to tear his hair.
But Mary who is barely two
Said Dad should do what I would do
I lose a lot, but I find a few
Down the back of the chair.

He’s patted himself, and searched the shelf. He’s hunted here and there,
So now he’ll kneel and try to feel right down the back of the chair.
Oh it seemed to grin as his hand went in.
He felt a tingling in his skin.
What will a troubled father win
From down the back of the chair?

Some hairy string and a diamond ring
Were down the back of the chair,
Pineapple peel and a conger eel
Were down the back of the chair
A sip, a sup, a sop, a song. A spider seven inches long,
No wonder that it smells so strong
Down the back of the chair.

A packet of pins and one of the twins
Down the back of the chair.
A pan, a fan that belonged to Gran
Down the back of the chair …
A crumb, a comb, a clown, a cap
A pirate with a treasure map,
A dragon trying to take a nap
Down the back of the chair.

A cake, a drake, a smiling snake,
Down the back of the chair
A string of pearls, a lion with curls
Down the back of the chair
A skink, a skunk, a skate, a ski,
A couple of elephants drinking tea
The bandersnatch and the bumblebee
Down the back of the chair.

But what is this? Oh bliss! Oh bliss!
(Down the back of the chair).
The long lost will of Uncle Bill
(Down the back of the chair).
His money box all crammed with cash
Tangled up in a scarlet sash
There’s pleasure, treasure, toys and trash
Down the back of the chair.

I've found my dreams, our father beams.
(Down the back of the chair).
At last I see how life can be.
(Down the back of the chair).
Forget the keys! We're poor no more
Just call a taxi to the door.
A taxi shot out with a roar
From down the back of the chair.

The chair, the chair, the challenging chair,
The champion chair, the cheerful chair,
The charming chair, the children’s chair,
The chopped and chipped but chosen chair
To think our fortune waited there
Down the back of the chair.

by Margaret Mahy

For more information on poet and author, Margaret Mahy, see:


Tuesday, August 1, 2017

Tuesday Poem: "Identity" by Håkan Sandell

His identity was always wandering, and though it
was as a lackadaisical dandy that we knew him first,
the old bottles filled with new wine:
then he was an actor, then half a poet,
later on a mechanic, in a motorcycle gang,
though only a minor cog in its design,
then a businessman, then with a (thinning) ponytail again,
appearing in constantly changing shapes.
But when drunk he very precisely with his knife
would carve into his arm his beloved’s name,
so that repeatedly, over two decades, it came
dripping onto the table, always the same,
the living letters a blood-red flame
welling from themselves, from the scar of her name.

     -- Håkan Sandell (translated from the Swedish by Bill Coyle)

For more information about the poet, Hokan Sandell, see:

Tuesday, July 18, 2017

Tuesday Poem: "An Arrangement for Seeing Children" by Edwin Brock

You were born in the front room
of a house behind the police station
and because I was a policeman
the midwife let me stay to watch.

You were not much trouble or so it seemed to me.
She groaned only intermittently
and the lady let me hold her hand.
At the moment of delivery

you managed to get your navel cord caught
like a silk strand around your throat
and this was a symbol I could understand
having done the same thing all my life.

I was not much interested in you then,
you looked as if you had been crudely carved in marble,
but I helped give you your names,
hoping you would fit them as you grew.

When you grew we pointed cameras at you
we stopped you playing, badgered you to stand still,
clicked the little button at the side
and then went on with what we had been doing.

That was all that parenthood required –
you fixed inside a cardboard box.
Thus you would not be forgotten
no matter how faulty our two memories.

And we two? We had reasons and excuses of our own.
We had our lives to lead, each other to enjoy
and a theory about not pampering our children.
We fed you, clothed you and used you by the names that we had chosen.

Now as you know we have broken - I live in one house
and you in another where I call on Saturdays.
I will never be able to explain why this is so
never having understood it for myself.

I know only that your red and freckled head
which waves out of our window points at me –
half way to the bus stop I hear your shutter click
as the road's curve covers me.

And I pray the picture you have taken
will be fogged and faulty
and that you will go on happily
with the things you had been doing.

by Edwin Brock

Photo Credit: Enitharmon Press

For more information on the poet, Edwin Brock, see:

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

Tuesday Poem: "My Blue Piano" by Else Lasker-Schüler

At home I have a blue piano.
But I can't play a note.

It's been in the shadow of the cellar door
Ever since the world went rotten.

Four starry hands play harmonies.
The Woman in the Moon sang in her boat.

Now only rats dance to the clanks.
The keyboard is in bits.

I weep for what is blue. Is dead.
Sweet angels, I have eaten

Such bitter bread. Push open
The door of heaven. For me, for now --

Although I am still alive --
Although it is not allowed.

by Else Lasker-Schüler (translated from the German by Eavan Boland)

For more information about the poet, Else Lasker-Schuler, see:


Tuesday, July 4, 2017

Tuesday Poem: "Poetry" by Marianne Moore

I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all this fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers in
it after all, a place for the genuine.
Hands that can grasp, eyes
that can dilate, hair that can rise
if it must, these things are important not because a
high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because they are
useful. When they become so derivative as to become unintelligible,
the same thing may be said for all of us, that we
do not admire what
we cannot understand: the bat
holding on upside down or in quest of something to

eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf under
a tree, the immovable critic twinkling his skin like a horse that feels a flea, the base-
ball fan, the statistician –
nor is it valid
to discriminate against ‘business documents and school-books’;
all these phenomena are important. One must make a distinction
however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the result is not poetry,
nor till the poets among us can be
‘literalists of the imagination-‘ above

insolence and triviality and can present

for inspection, ‘imaginary gardens with real toads in them,’ shall we have
it. In the meantime, if you demand on one hand,
the raw material of poetry in
all its rawness, and
that which is on the other hand
genuine, then you are interested in poetry.

by Marianne Moore

For more information about poet, Marianne Moore, see:

Tuesday, June 27, 2017

Tuesday Poem (Actually Prose this time around): "Global Village" by Andrew M. Bell

“For my family very good, we no complain. Live Byron Street, got a few small tree, cut away all the old one. Boss, he's a open-a shop in 1954. I'm-a workin' for him since 1968.”
There are large Italian and Greek communities and smaller groups from Netherlands, Germany, Poland, Yugoslavia and South-East Asia.
“I tink it could be right if officials are right. Ve losink business 'cause of parking. I ring dem, ring dem, ring again. Shire don't care. I've been 17 years. New election, talk very sweet, but do nothink. Extremely unhappy.”
Quaint phraseology is one of the hallmarks of history.
This Foundation Stone of the Leederville Post Office was laid by The Hon. E.H. Wittenoom M.L.C. Minister for Posts and Telegraphs on the 3rd day of May 1897.
Leederville is one of Perth's oldest suburbs. It was named after an early settler, William Leeder, who obtained about 120 hectares of land bordering Lake Monger in the early 1830s.
“It is a four-minute drive from the city, 10 minutes from the beach and has easy access to Mitchell Freeway. And then there is Lake Monger. What more could anyone want?"
Before the white man came, the district had been called Galup. Natives camped there and one of their leaders was Yagan, who resisted the settlers.
“Old, established area. Uncle's 72, lived here since he was 15. Older type homes. Customers lived here a long time. Population's changing - young, trendy kids moving in and doing up old houses. "
It seems Leederville is about to become Perth's next Yuppie suburb. Already the young, trendy professionals are moving into an area, which, for many years has been considered an unfashionable backwater.
To enjoy sitting outside of an evening, free from "skeeters", we would place pieces of cow manure on shovels of live coals.
“It used to be a great shopping centre, but it's gone down. Terrific 20 years ago. Less business. More dead.”
CHIPPER AND SON – Caring Funeral Directors – 144 Railway Pde Leederville
Clean-up plan for the deadly Lake Monger
In 1974, the Mitchell Freeway hammered yet another nail in Leederville's coffin.
The car horns toll the knell of parting day,
The toxic fumes creep slowly o'er the park,
The traffic homeward plods its weary way,
And leaves the world to joggers and the dark.
Dusk on Lake Monger. The silhouettes of hundreds of black swans, ducks and other waterfowl move gracefully across the darkening waters rippled now by a cool evening breeze. It is quiet. Peaceful. Just the place to escape the tensions of a day at the office.
Once as a party of soldiers crept up on his camp, a flock of cockatoos took fright and flew off with deafening cries, warning him.
Lake Monger plan is for the birds
Leederville went into decline as the boom years faded.
Yagan was eventually caught and killed and the native resistance died down.
Recommended measures include:
* Commissioning a landscape concept plan, in consultation with Aboriginal groups;
* Removal of exotic fish and restocking with native species;
(Its chief beauty spot is Monger's Lake, a fine sheet of fresh water about 275 acres in extent, stocked with fish [chiefly English perch, tench, and carp] and provided with excellent boating facilities.)
NEW RELEASE – Magic Glow Friends or Puppy Surprise – Save $4
God’s Gift to you is Life – What you do with it is your Gift to God
Introduction to the Deaf Community and its Culture – A 6-week beginner’s course commencing 26th October 1992 at Leederville Campus.
"It's a little village town. The village atmosphere appeals to many overseas visitors. Doctor, shops, school, everything's so compact. Lot of other suburbs all stretched out, no appeal, no atmosphere. All the restaurants give it a touch of Northbridge, touch of multicultural."
Pearl River bridge – zhongshan specialty – ingredients: Green bean powder, sugar, almond powder, and edible vegetable oil. Packed by china national cereals, oils and foodstuffs imp. & Exp. Corp. guangdong china
Loftus Community Centre – French Speaking Playgroup
                              English for Migrants
“I work here and that's about it. It's a very, very Italian town. You go down to the shopping arcade and you feel like you're in Milan."
"Friendly, not fast-moving, seems to still be in the '60s. Attitudes, way people dress, no one stressed out. Always hunting 'round for a bargain, not very affluent."
Beware - bag and till snatchers are busy
"Don't talk to me about fuckin' Leederville! I got broken into last night and lost two thousand bucks worth of stock."
“Like a little country town. Lived here all my life. Gonna grow. It's gonna hit. Then it’ll change. Lose its charm."
Finally, who remembers catching gilgies in Smith's Lake, near the corner of Richmond and Loftus Streets long before houses appeared there?

Old Post Office, Leederville, WA (Copyright unknown)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I decided to post something a bit different this week. With all the global media coverage of the refugee issues, I thought I'd post this Found Text prose piece that I wrote while living and studying in Perth, Western Australia, in the early 1990s.

From 1988-1994, I lived in Leederville in a small cosmopolitan street not far from the main shopping village area. At that stage, Leederville wasn't a "discovered" trendy, inner-city suburb that it is now. I imagine the population demographic and the cost of housing has changed dramatically.

When I lived there, Leederville was a colourful, cosmopolitan suburb filled with people of many ethnic backgrounds and small shops that reflected that multiculturalism. I used to love wandering around and talking to people with all kinds of backgrounds and stories to tell.

I feel that Australia is doing itself a huge disservice with its recent refugee policy. It is denying itself a cultural diversity and richness and it has become blind to compassion.

This Found text was composed from interviews with local residents and shopkeepers, signs, graffiti, local histories and all manner of advertising pamphlets and other ephemera.