...As the storm brews from the west
and the winds blow dust
into our poor little eyes
we take refuge inside.
There we find a man
hanging from the ceiling,
Mother Monster plastered
on a heavily graffitied wall,
and most would miss a tiny
drawing of a man waving.
Burst of colours would
jarringly meld with the
browns, the rusts, the siennas
of the industrial space,
including a dazzle of
pink from Pola's now
famous tights.
After all the pretty, ugly
things are seen.
We head back to the most
beautiful harbour in the planet.
Where we fill our bellies
with pies with faces on them.
Have a great week.
Love, Jesue
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