Shipping containers pile up on blocked motorways, their primary colours ringing like a child’s toy. They have been here so long that they have begun to evolve into simple crustaceans, their rudimentary tentacles exploring a world gone flat. They can be seen from space, or on social media, their milky eyes swaying towards light as they wait for the gods they will conjure in a millennium or two. For them, it’s a grey world, a silent world of felt vibrations, as their steel carapaces slide and grate like Tetris, or a Rubik’s cube twisted slowly in bored frustration. Keys on a tin piano, their mouths pop and slime, miming hymns of future religions, anthems of germinal nations, their motorcycle hearts purring their metamorphic need.
Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor