Winter textsSwitch it up with a bit of Rev
PLEASE EASE DOWN MEN AT WORK. Me scuttling, forcing, pressing. Glum precinct. Icepave reflections. Me potato head. Flagpole winds dent, neon gets winter going. Need tea.
City-from-above lino. Industrial polish aroma from vast dungeons. Want to get out. So I hide in the caverns after custard cream dunk. Far-off corridor glows.
Window shoes in the ghost shop. I regenerate for later. Computer server puffs, a big sound in the after-day space. Done again.
Fingertips reddened, clear my headzone for colder torsions. Everything is done but I will try to remix it after nightfall, only better. Warmth wanted; January beckons.
Further postings from the laser-pointy horizon-blade panoramas. Sleepsick zoning through apocalypse Tesco sandwich void before eerie train carriage deadness. The streets laugh silent.
Red, red, amber, green. Red circle. Double amber. Red. Red. Another amber. Red. Colours link the distances. Blankness inbetween.
Tired brow pillow-heavy. Computer fires shake courthugging miniature palaces. Half-three fountainside gloom descends.
Beachy slate platform bathed in hi-viz sun.
Dinky-toy car hedgerow all silent dark icecube motionless. Pockmark lamps, except in the graveyard. On the bluered bus my mind freezes over until I stutter a smile.
Outline shadow-man looms in front of old-school red telephone box in the mustardlamp cleardusk. Front-memory collage spring pieces. Thames-chill knife. Dull eczema lowtan faces knock by on the bulging westbound.
FUCK THE TORIES. Black marker pen on red telephone box. FUCK THE TORIES. Black marker pen on turquoise portaloo.
Papier-mâché morning. Lift doors open to cube landing. Doors close. Empty lift descends.
Spring perfumes unfurled. Margarine sunblast behind the Tesco stretch, giant no-face girl looming. Coke ringpull cemented in gravel. Shakleton Court: dayend glazed.
Globe lamp flickering in dusk-window-golds. Phantom workman slides across scene, becomes featureless, becomes his shadow.
Ghostcyclist works round roadcurve in dawn snap. White-flare pond version of litup skyline. Icecheeked, I tread the night-day divide.
© Copyright 2017 John Maher