I Love the Smell of Napalm in the Morning


Just like those rumours of rogue commandos who never got word of the end of the war, and who’d sometimes be glimpsed, snake-eyed and foam-lipped, glaring from the edge of the wild; so there are those who missed the memo about the Renaissance and still cling on to the eleventh century, with its feudal imperatives and impractical robes. There they are, processing between pillars in the heart of the sinking city, swaggering on a balcony to wave at the homeless and the foodbank queues, sweating with the weight of archaic regalia and honours they’ve graciously bestowed on themselves. And then they’re gone, half-way round the world, to some sun-scorched island they still believe is theirs; and we wonder if we really saw them, and if they were even here at all, and if the Renaissance was just fake news and we have never really understood perspective.




Oz Hardwick
Picture nick Victor

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