I am like an old and dented cookie tin
the one that’s been emptied and is now used for spare buttons and odd shaped pieces that fall off of things
and pennies found rolled and hairy under the couch.
Os pedaços, cacos do meu vidro, de mim, todos cortantes, pulsantes, deitados no chão à espera de qualquer coisa e não há nada. Não há sinais no céu, na testa, sob as pálpebras que indiquem, apontem, denotem migalhas restantes de amor. Nem fumaça, nem fogo, nem cigarro amassado no maço, nem um último trago que desça queimando e me faça arder por dentro. Nada.
Mark Bramley’s pictures raise a feeling of desolation. In each picture there are obvious clues that indicate mankind was here someday, but they seem long gone. The places where Bramley (UK) takes his photos seem to concentrate in the USA. His style is peculiar. Although people could always be around the corner, he…