Photography
A face carved to wood. A life given so a false idol can smile at nobody. An insult to nature, a greeting to us. Whatever the reason and however the result, he will smile for decades on.
A pop-culture icon and forgotten artefact gathering dust in a seaside arcade in Swanage. How many fortunes had he told, how many people had passed him? How long had he been trapped in that box, trying to communicate with the people stuck in that forgotten town?
The top stairwell of the multi-storey in Poole. Home to a regular heroin addict. Today he had gone, or left, or was travelling, or kicked out. He would be back. His shrine above, the writings, journal and diary of a man whose God spoke in pricks.
A stroll at a local walking spot. Fluffy white clouds trapped in a rusty wire fence not in use and long forgotten. Nature lives on, adapting around us- our wire fence mistakenly left.
The Man, a solid presence at the doors of Swanage Arcade. Machines had come and gone, staff too. He had seen it all, every single face, every private affair and every dirty secret.
The spoiled window on top of a multi-storey in Poole. Produce from bored teens, alcohol-induced husbands, attentive and mindless heroin addicts that often called the stairwell their home, stuck looking out at happy shoppers. Were they pleased watching, or was their produce a home-made wallpaper?
The irony of Poole. A city in development, whose highstreet caters for the very finest of charity shop browsers. It is in development, building four-wall houses so more charity shop browsers can wonder the dirty streets.
Straight path in a forrest. Once a Roman's trail to power, then a railway's commute to money-rich cities. Now a dog-walker's lane for their dogs to soil on. After, perhaps it will be covered in soil so the forrest might reclaim its territory.
