I notice that you’re a dreamer
That you continue to stand there,
With Sir Polar Bear;
Engulfed in its colossal shadow,
And I can see that you know,
That I know
That you know this too.
It seems you can be forever surrounded,
By an endless sea of molten metals
Your mysterious lands;
Crumbling,
Decomposing with rust;
Endlessly being anchored –
By your hidden flamboyance
Always to be taken –
By complex science
To a certain past
And a future lost.
Dry felt-tip pens
Odd florescent socks
Tracing paper
The Muppets lunchbox
Sweetshops
Dull board games
Lots and lots of dice
Shortened holidays
Longer Sundays
Missing the bus again… twice!
Morning Telly
Pop! Go the ants
Nothing and everything
In soaking wet pants
World cup dramas
Bad wrestling fights
Unwelcome relatives
The endless summer nights
Bad haircuts
Cracked pavements
Thick scabby knees
Puddles
Beer sweets
Sherbet dib-dabs please!
Fake blood
Loading times
The gallop top 40
BUNDLE!
Less of your cheek
Naughty-naughty-naughty!
Too short in the trouser
Satchels
Gizmo top of pet names
Xmas, birthday, Xmas
Nonsense ball games
First love and embarrassment
Marbles on the drains
Saturday + Sunday = two day week!
Diving paper planes
The register
Good… morning… Mrs… Teacher!
Worms and Daddy longlegs
Scare girls but won’t eat ya!
The dreaded Chinese burn
Now wait your ruddy turn!
I could go on…
Someone out there,
Identical to you; in every possible way,
and you passed them in the street, unnoticed…
Only yesterday…
Oh well.
Flowers beautiful
Message sent
Message received
Fragrant scent
Stems cut
Growing not
Petals browning
Dying rot
Losing my grip now,
and so gravity ensures
my future’s prescribed.
Gently tumbling;
prolonging,
buoyant;
like a fleck of fresh dust.
How structure and design
now discards me;
to unearth odd ceilings;
calmly engage my feet;
on hovering,
flirtatious,
ground.
Wheels rattling
Hardened grip
Push shunt
Kerb trip
Toy fallen
Toddler crying
Comfort-comfort
Parent trying
Winning line
Neck stooped
All losers
All pooped
No jokes please! Not without first approval.
Especially long ones, they will result in your removal.
Most likely it won’t be funny or slightly amusing,
And if I should smile, point a finger to myself, accusing.
At some shit-awful joke told reliably badly,
I’ll give you the punchline of your life… gladly.
While some of us are thinking about it, some are actually doing it, and those who are doing it are usually telling me all about it. By all accounts, there great at it too! And feeling greater about it, every… single… day!
Honestly, I’m over the moon for you, I truly am… warms my cockles… no end. But, In my thinking… and trust me I’ve had the time too (about what it is you’re great at doing), I have got to say, that I’ve decided I would be so much… much, better than you! Even if I wanted to do it, but I don’t even need to, (I’m actually laughing in my mind), I haven’t even thought to try it… unbelievable!
So, just in case you’re thinking about telling me all about it… again! Don’t bother because I won’t be listening from now on, I’ll just be… thinking about… me! Maybe not trying it, deciding not to do it… again!
Thanks for listening.
All thanks to a lens in your eyes,
when the sun outlines the horizon.
A sunset: no different to a sunrise,
just something to keep your eyes on.
Daryl hadn’t seen a full open sky for nine, whole, working years; un-retractable visors had been fixed above his eyes to protect them from the elements, to focus his attention on his work. His perfectly symmetrical, amber, tear-shaped eye-slots were unable to look up; limiting him to sporadic glimpses of a pixelated horizon.
It seemed that the sun set and rose perpetually, kaleidoscopic in their beauty but increasingly cruel to Daryl (something incomprehensible to human thought).
Over the recent days, gradually Daryl felt oddly distant, and a coldness had bred; invading his core, it was like he was viewing himself slipping away, into ever-more denser, industrialised fog. He felt his visors would soon be taken off him, only to be fixed upon another; his younger brother.
Seemingly, his hardship was nobody’s fault, just the way things were, part of growing up as a simulacrum; in a brutal, un-empathising, nonsensical world.
By his calculations, he would be free in hours, to take in as much sky as he had desperately yearned for — only that moment never arrived, because he broke down that very moment his visors were to be removed. He was left in numerical order amongst faulty prototypes, lying against his predecessor, in a stuffy, dark, windowless room; to desperatly decay without burial or ceremony, to be replaced by a newer and more advanced unit.
One of Daryl’s amber eye-slots still inexplicably flickers in the otherwise overwhelming blackness; momentarily revealing some evidence of limp limbs that filled the room poorly.
Visors were never to be fixed upon his brother…
I Eat Let.ers 