Worlds by camus

[cameron]

My place is kept, in the old world.
It sneaks around shop corners
on those occasional autumnal mornings:
Lopsided boys, hair, mini hurricanes,
blown out of the house by mightier storms.
Their cross-stitched language,
their mismatched clothes,
the bloom of ill youth; delving ten-
penny paper bags, hoping for
the jaw breaker, the silencer.
A beautiful sight - Sweet innocence.
It appears on occasion in public conveniences;
A nod of the head in a festering library, from
a corpse of knowledge, they know, they care,
these victims of moderninity
Yes, my place is kept, in the old world.
The new world has no need for reminders.
It’s heady and it’s virulent and it melts
and it steams as it searches its place in the past;
and barge poles, and telescopes and microscopes
and maps and maps of maps, and Virgin (TM) time machines
are all useless now.