Number Five

Just in time. Blockades of minutes march together storm-walling like allies in the face of foe. It wasn’t a long battle. He was a new professional, grown out of the seconds. Flat cap and sandals tradition. The other boys from the school had gone earlier but on account of his tendril eyes he had to stay back, help the researchers make measurements, marvel at his natural freakishness. Tick tock et cetera. The barrage completed hours at the top. You will run on my whistle. They shook with fear, who wouldn’t? The past was a very empty place. But like the minutes of yesterday used to say, “We’re just a drop in the ocean.”  The words of his life flickered past, obscene memories never once thought of, emerged as if they’d always been there just beneath the surface. What did the cereal have to do with it? Frosted sugar-loaded processed cornflakes, fronted by an animated crow. “Tastes great ship-shape. Tastes great ship-shape.” He’d forgotten all about that little ditty and now the ...

Root stop watch. Rhythm switching sisters that plague allies to run faster, harder, stronger. It all smacks of deliberate espionage. A monstrous climb-child traverses the mountain, and snatches at thunderbolts, still whingeing when scorched hands flail into the sleepy towns and villages in order to just get a little respite. Despite his wounds he bawls off into the faces of once-lauded deities, the Thors, the Odins, the Dyaus Pitars and the like. They climb further now – priced out by modernisms that filled their hollow shoes. Your internets, your social medias, your pop stars and your inner psyche that sits in the centre of the vortex and the like. Plastic dog butts saddle their way home. Microwave meals achieve post-modern luxury and TV sets turn the channels on you, the viewer. It was only a matter of time after all, but the climb-child had to reach the outskirts, dog-busting fence-shifters, and firemen trained to the tea. They knew the day of reckoning would c...