[dropcap style=”font-size:100px; color:#992211;”]T[/dropcap]he underbelly of the American Dream is scarred with the trackmarks of half-glimpsed spectres.
‘As you pull open the rusted door of a long abandoned Impala, you can almost hear the kids running around the motor court, shooting each other with sparking silver ray guns amidst the phantom chords of a bygone era echoing from the busted radio set.’
– Carl Byron Batson cruising through the badlands and pitstops of a desert fantasy that never dropped the curtain.
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- Desert or deserted? Chasing ghosts in the USA
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- Two cultural references in one: the moonshot and the Flintstones
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- Lawfully Wedded HB?
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- Cosy. Or should that be cozy?
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- Alternative perspectives on red, white and blue
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- Ventured? Gained?
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- Fountain seeks jerk.
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- Stare into the dead eyes of a splitscreened landshark
Photos by Carl Byron Batson. Not to be reproduced without express prior permission.
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Photographer, published poet, former party animal, body builder, grave robber
to the stars and renowned chainsaw juggler, Carl can often be spotted on his
Harley Davidson pretending to be in Terminator 2. He is also frequently seen in
the press pits of old London town, camera in hand, avoiding being hit by bottles
of wee and crippling his opposition with secret Kung Fu moves.
