This is a public service announcement
Denouncing the trouncing of freedom
And the weighing up of human life in ounces.
I can’t be the only one sick of counting corpses,
Keeping calm and carrying on despite the carrion?
There’s no accounting for these actions
Cos dead civilians are never a ticket to the kingdom.
So many confused youths
Gone from Peter Pan to Pettigrew
Listened to someone else’s hate
And let grow, settle and brew.
I always check in, but I want to check out
I no longer know what this world is about
When the end game is watching blood
Trickle from a child’s mouth
Silently mouthing words she’ll never say,
‘Where’s my mum?’ saved for a rainy day
Eyelid close, breath fades away
And rain trickles down from skies that are grey.
But we won’t forget them, that’s what I say,
Because we stand together
Yeah, that’s the London way.
Tag: religion
Day #25
Sabaeliganism: Same as Sabianism (Middle Eastern religious precursor to Islam)
Gravenstein: A kind of fall apple marked with streaks of deep red and orange and of excellent flavor and quality
Buteonine: relating to or resembling a hawk of the genus Buteo; possessing large powerful hooked beaks for tearing flesh from their prey, strong legs and powerful talons.
—–
A pair of ruby traffic lights entomb the traffic totems in a momentary caesura, exhaust fumes swelling like lactic acid amongst the tyre treads. It’s lunch-time and across the zebra stripe road, a meal deal beckons like the pot of gold at the end of a monochrome rainbow.
The temperature drops as the automatic curtains are pulled back, chills are multiplying, the refrigerators buzz with a dead glow. A Nectar Card toting Indiana Jones perusing rows of sandwiches like the dates on a calendar, their packaging garish and cheap, their innards limp and listless. It’s a hot day and I can feel the curling lip of brown lettuce pulling at my heartstrings.
‘Excuse me.’
An office boy butts in, grabs a BLT, pack of crisps and an Innocent smoothie. He immediately blends back into the crowd, swallowed by a current of quinoa salads and flat-heeled shoes. Too much choice, where’s the little packs of fruit? Apple and grape, Gravenstein and Ruby Romans, Denmark and Japan, an unlikely yet decadent duo. However, I think it’s only Granny Smith slices and little purple marbles. The white tooth of the apple is stained pink.
Around a corner, I wish David Attenborough were here as I watch a woman, buteonine, snare her son with manicured talons, bright pink with white playboy bunnies – Sistine nails. He’s spilled a box of cereal and now he’s spilling tears. Wriggling like a freshly caught fish in his mother’s grasp. ‘And so the cycle of nature continues…’ mumbles Attenborough, eyeing a box of risotto rice that’s currently two-for-one.
‘Bentley! Bentley, now you c’mere! Little shit! What’cha fink yer doin? And where’s yer sister? Mercedes! Mercedes!’
What’s this woman the head of, a family or a car show room? ‘I’ve think I’ve got the wrong program,’ mumbles Attenborough as he joins the back of the self-service queue. He’s gone from my mind by the time I reach the front, not that anything else could be when I hear the sonorous cry of ‘next please!’
Dominic scans then bags my goods and I’m left to my own devices – idle, hifalutin ideas; the sort that wouldn’t fit through a 10-items-or-less lane. Sainsbury’s to Lidl; Jamie Oliver to…well, someone; Islam to Sabaeliganism. Good word. A Wikipedia binge paying dividends.
‘D’you want any cashback?’ asks Dominic, broad chested and dark hair closely shorn.
‘Nah, it’s ok. Wait…no.’
If you don’t have it, you can’t spend it. That’s simple logic. That’s just one of the epiphanies I’ve had whilst tapping my pin code into the little fiscal Ark of the Covenant, fingers lithe as Mozart in the morning. Digits swirl, melt, LEDs expire and resurrect just down the street, little digital abacuses sending messages in Morse, a cacophony of 1’s and 0’s that dictate all and don’t really exist unless we all believe in them. I keep the receipt, just in case.
When I leave the store, bag in hand, receipt in pocket, the midday sun washes over me and I decide this must be how a reptile feels.
Day #19
Growler: One who growls
Theocracy: Government of a state by the immediate direction or administration of God hence the exercise of political authority by priests as representing the Deity
Necessitation: The act of making necessary or the state of being made necessary compulsion
—–
Hangdur slowed the geeter to a halt. The giant bird’s thick, muscular legs quickly disappeared amongst the heat haze that rippled on the ground, an invisible lake. Shouldn’t think about water, mused Hangdur wryly, stroking his steed’s neck, the hard feathers metallic to the touch. The geeter grunted; its call was guttural and raspy, definitely parched.
Holding onto the reigns, Hangdur jumped down and tentatively approached the stone archway that loomed ahead of him. Beyond the archway sat the mountain – the only thing for miles around – jutting out the ground like a giant, lone stalagmite amongst the scrub. If what the old man had said was true, then Hangdur had to pass through the stone archway if he ever wanted to find the Kophi Sphere.
The geeter seemed suddenly hesitant, digging its wide, webbed feet into the ground. The bird was similar to an old world ostrich, two legged and entirely flightless, built solely for running. The fallout had caused the geeters to grow larger, stronger and more aggressive. They were the new battle stallions, more vicious than horses and less prone to erratic behaviour too. Besides, when was the last time anyone had even seen a horse?
‘Come on, boy,’ said Hangdur softly, tugging the reigns to gently coax the geeter forward. The bird put up a brief struggle then resignedly acquiesced, each step long but tentative. As the bird and its rider approached the archway a throaty snarl snapped through the early evening quiet. It sounded close. Hangdur slipped a gun from the holster on his back – a piecemeal weapon, metallic pipes twisted and soldered together like an Escher sketch.
From behind a rock a growler slunk forward, ribs showing and a dead-eyed hunger etched into its face. It snarled again and brazenly stalked forward, caution cast aside by the necessitation of hunger. Its patchy, sandy fur bled into its surroundings rendering it almost invisible in the twilight, a living, breathing optical illusion.
Hangdur quickly fired a warning bolt that struck and clattered off a nearby rock. The growler stopped moving, contemplating and weighing up its options, eyes wide and watery. A few seconds later, its decision apparently made, the growler bolted into the encroaching darkness. Gone – for now, at least. Gonna have to keep an eye open out for that son of a bitch, noted Hangdur.
Free to pass, Hangdur and the geeter passed beneath the stone archway. It was an impressive structure – hewn from the mountain and standing almost 20 metres tall, every inch covered in ornate carvings. Who had done them and why was a mystery, and seeing them up close reminded Hangdur of tales he had been told as a child. He shivered involuntarily, slight doubts ominously massaging his conviction. To calm himself, Hangdur flicked on the flashlight that hung from a strap draped over his jacket then switched on his co-locator, fingers squashed into a pocket. At least if the growler got the better of him now, they’d still be able to find his body.
‘That’s the problem with theocracy, boy,’ said Hangdur absentmindedly, ‘they always want you to track down the damn relics and they don’t care what you gotta go through to get ’em…’
Hangdur’s voice trailed off in awe, echoing queerly on the rocks, as the pair emerged from the archway and into a steep sided canyon that shimmered like glass.
Day #2
Unbowed : Not bent or arched not bowed down
Papyrine : Imitation parchment made by soaking unsized paper in dilute sulphuric acid
Approving : Expressing approbation commending as an approving smile
—–
It was the perfect plan. Gaston had spent months scouring the archives, memorising the shapes of letters. The curly flourish of a capital ‘R’. The crucifix of a small ‘t’. The endless ouroboros of the letter ‘o’. Of course, he had been helped along the way, spending countless hours alone with nothing but scrolls, the thick stub of a candle and the Pastor, who despite his saintly façade stood to gain as much from Gaston’s plan as the man himself. After all, it never hurt to have the Lord’s backing.
The Pastor, an elderly man whose back was remarkably unbowed despite his age, was a common fixture in the village. Trusted and feared in equal measure by his flock, he was always willing to interpret God’s word in a particular way if the gold coin bent between his teeth. Bent coins always gave way to a cackle and the same old tired joke that it was a ‘special communion wafer’ rather than bribe.
Was it really a bribe though if the word was never mentioned, or was it merely engendering oneself to God’s approving gaze? And therein lay the rub: you had to take the Pastor’s word for what constituted good and evil. If a gold coin slipped between sweaty fingers was acknowledged as good, then so be it.
Gaston worked in the village tannery. He awoke at dawn, made his way to the butcher’s abattoir and collected the previous day’s hides, many still covered in the yesterday’s gore like a bad dream. Over time his nose had become numb to the smell of rotting flesh and he had learnt to tolerate the buzzing of flies, flitting around the freshly deceased like children clamouring for honeyed gingerbread.
By the time the village slowly began to grind to life, Gaston had already trimmed, salted and washed dozens of pelts, then dumped them in the pit to wait until the hair rotted off. He hated the pit. It was filled with a lime and water solution that smelt so sickly sweet it made him gag. Death shouldn’t smell of flowers.
He wasn’t trusted to tan the leather yet, that came upon completing his apprenticeship. But still, the smoke of the furnaces and the faeces that stained the leather often made his eyes water and his throat burn. It was more a punishment than a job. But the rumor kept him going. He had to cling to it.
The Pastor had pitied Gaston, said he had known the boy’s mother before she died giving birth to her only son. The wily old man had even mentioned that Gaston’s mother had moved in prestigious circles, very prestigious indeed, especially before Gaston had been born.
A stolen gold coin later and here they were. Gaston, memorising his letters and then re-writing his own birth certificate. Gaston watching the Pastor gingerly submerge paper into the green tinted acid, the resulting papyrine indistinguishable from real parchment. Gaston hoping to start a new life. The gappy grin of the Pastor flickering like an empty skull above the flicker of a candle.
Stories On The Sofa 