We raced along jiggling like a bright bag of sweets
our eyes following the hills that slipped into focus
our fingers on the lens split the image automatically
We were like good-luck charms
with 5-Year plans and 6-Year fads
We got up when we fell
our knees split like eggs, but always inside
a bit half-baked, undone, our stiff tears, sad lollies and wobbling smiles
just rained away

In summer we crossed the hills like fuses
but other hills rolled through us
a gang of tinpot brownshirts on excursion, but without
an instructor or guide, with no sign
of a sign that directed anything: STOP STOP
YOU ARE LEAVING THE REALIST SECTOR, EVERYTHING
ENDS HERE
but it doesn't, but they never hear.
I called my baby commandos
‘The Invincible Platoon'

Like borderline cases we practised borderline behaviour
when our eyes jerked to the other side
where hills coiled like film, a mirrored Adventureland
blazing and swimming,
we always kept in negative, scared to develop -
real heads or pictured heads puddled in solution - all were fog
Our proletariat genes split-screen our glances
We dutifully blocked out those sights and mopped our white skin
We were the Red kids

translated by Gig Ryan