tomorrow morning you’ll get; an e-mail in your mail-box a pigeon at your sill a letter through your letter-box a fax on your fax a memo on your desk an arrow to your tree an SMS on your mobile a brick through your window flowers at your door as overhead you’ll see a private plane with a banner trailing all with the same message; was our losing touch written in the stars?
Darkness is very black with eyes open or closed. 100 years after an attack where dead men marching wearily dozed.
You’re going to have to take that back or else there’ll be hell to pay! You’re going to have to take that back! It misfires and could blow your head off one day!
Ah, sod this for a game of soldiers. Let’s turn back! Let’s shine up our buttons for a parade and line up for the final push or massive big button whack! Kids, learn history by heart ‘cos memories fade.
Buoying up what should only be anchored on a seabed, launching horizon thoughts from a beachy head, polishing off planks running red in gallons on bloody Mary galleons, mutinying off bilious dream decks into wavy waters off Albion; a pirate seagull takes a selfie from a cliff ledge.
Out-of-breath knee-rug centenarians in their Sunday best blowing out as many candles as possible to show who’s the eldest, sudden street-sleepers rolling out nicotine-rolled mattresses, metal-detector treasure-hunting wanderers wondering where it’s at is; a hypochondriac pigeon twigs it and drops down dead on its chest.
Shuddering scaredy-cats fidgety-pecking bread-crumbs, cry-baby pram-pushing toddlers make-believing their mums perfect perchers on rain-dropping bunting over wet pavement stones, nesty fledgling prodigies playground-beaking on xylophones; an Olympic swift breaks the all-time record at 32 metres per second.
Up-in-the-branches and away-with-the-fairies for whatever it takes. a modest million-strong division of camouflaged ambushers awakes, budget-totting scrimpers’n’savers blowing it all in one fell swoop, flashy film producing flashers put away for a long time in a chicken coop; a skylarking starling in mirror-sunglasses sweepstakes.
I hold back more words a day than I ever say. Spout off more than my fair share to people who don’t know me or care just to entertain.
I go back home, open the door and close it behind me once more. Go to my park bench with its personalized plaque in my sitting room and sit back and watch the day’s passersby once again.
The moon outside is a little empty head glowing in the dark as I go to bed with the whole world wide web as a speech-bubble with 7 billion mouths presumably in a bit of trouble to get what they think heard or get voices they hear not written off as absurd.