Overheard at the corner shop...
Customer - Your plastic bags are rubbish, they always tear before I get home.
Shopkeeper - You know what you need to do?
Customer - No, what?
Shopkeeper - Live closer to the shop.
I do love him. And he gave the fella a free bag.
The points on Sleep's compass are cause for concern
They're moving from what I am hearing,
Soon I'll be forced from my bed to return
To a daytime of orienteering.
In our town we lost our Marks and Sparks,
Said the building's needed for car parks,
To no avail we raged and even ranted,
Our town is now severely underpanted.
Monday, The Magician's Assistant, covered from head to toe in mist. With a wave of its wand, The Marvelous Sun will burn it away before our very eyes. A chorus of birds chirp that they've seen this trick before. Others sit patiently on TV aerials, waiting for the big reveal.
The glowing sky; a rumour of morning, and one which will make it blush. Then those stubby-fingered trees which inhabit the dark will be shown to have elegantly long hands, waiting for the first rings of Spring.
The world recalibrates its wonders and I find dog poo on my porch.
The garden glistens after a quick shower. Jewels have been sewn into every blade of grass. It's sweating diamonds before dawn. The rising sun is shooing away the clouds as if it's tired of them getting under its feet. The mist is granted a stay, in exchange for a promise of haze.
The corner shop's chiller is off. I ask why.
"MAINTENANCE" sighs the shopkeeper pointing to a sign saying "MAINTENANCE".
"Oh, maintenance" I nod like I understand, "Er, how long will it be?"
"Until the sign comes down."
I fear it's not the 1st time he's been asked. Nor the last.
A rising sun raises dark bruises on the mottled flesh of the sky. A dog's bark visits from barks unknown. An old newspaper flutters. Only the news has fluttered by. An empty packet of crisps trembles on the breeze. A distant train rumbles on. All part of this town's tumbleweed.
Emperors, Kings and Presidents,
Send your sons to war.
Let them pay for your negligence,
When you scream for more.
Senators, Dukes and Ministers,
Send your sons to war.
Let them be co-conspirators,
And we shall keep the score.
The sky canvas is white with constant cloud,
a dreamscape for the imaginative;
a cloud to everyone else.
A dragon on a moped, a tall ship
on fire, a fly eating an apple.
I dream of a life in the clouds,
but I know I'd just look down,
trying to find shapes on the ground.
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