 |
| We Had Different Plans ~ Gregory Ferrand |
Down the double helix she slides, leg muscles accentuated through denim, face a narrow wedge cut by black eyes shadowed; purpose personified.
The waiting clang of mechanised fuckwits fidget in anticipation of their reward, to finally do what they are paid to pretend they don’t do. To draw blood.
The helix fractals outward to produce visions of horror: to each eye an individual horror composed of that individual’s particular fears.
To what end does this violence aspire?
To what heights does the assassin desire?
And when the crowds disperse; to their chicken and their beer; to their hopes and their despair; the street returns to its bureaucratic zone, grid reference fifty-one degrees North and zero degrees West.
And as normal is returned, the blood is washed into gutters by outsources street cleaners; sticker pickers and graffiti removers; by those who don’t have the benefit of choice. Or so they believe.
Down through the double dealers she glides, kicking the bricks left behind wheels, setting the world in motion again.
The waiting clang of mechanised fuckwits fidget in anticipation of their reward, to finally do what they are paid to pretend they don’t do. To draw blood.
The helix fractals outward to produce visions of horror: to each eye an individual horror composed of that individual’s particular fears.
To what end does this violence aspire?
To what heights does the assassin desire?
And when the crowds disperse; to their chicken and their beer; to their hopes and their despair; the street returns to its bureaucratic zone, grid reference fifty-one degrees North and zero degrees West.
And as normal is returned, the blood is washed into gutters by outsources street cleaners; sticker pickers and graffiti removers; by those who don’t have the benefit of choice. Or so they believe.
Down through the double dealers she glides, kicking the bricks left behind wheels, setting the world in motion again.
Tales for an attention deficit world
No comments:
Post a Comment