Fake slumber (ghost premonition)
Thousands of silhouettes hush across
the crossroads flanked by police on either side - luminous dots
the traffic waits and watches
we drift together, until we get underground
and heartbroken-faced I say my goodbyes
slink along the quiet platform
shaking off the answers
yet content, yet alone
I dream of some kind of chaos
unaware of the chaos to come
Their walkie-talkies bleep and crackle in the blossoming night and I see the luminous builders' jackets twinkle neon greyish as the moon catches them. I see the lunar white reflect off their eyeballs. They are waiting for things to come. "Blackpool Pier recently," one of the burly bald blokes is bragging. "That was a good gig, fuckloads of kiosks all along the strip." I pick out the joy in his eyes as I'm trying to slink, but slink away slowly. And they're talking among themselves, remembering different shifts and experiences and places and vibes. Fleetwood was "banging". Llandudno full of "great beef". Brighton "wired". Southend "the best yet". These guys had marshalled some of the most famous piers in Britain. They had done it with pride. They are filled with sadness that one day they'll no longer be needed to do the job.
No more revolutions.
The train continues on -
the heat peels back my skin.
Our forests are these
corridors, passageways, carriages
I build my storybook
I snuggle in, cosy up
and wrap it around me.
© Copyright 2016 John Maher