(no subject)
And then the recent one, that I actually quite like:
Have Death, Will Travel
A month, they say. A month here, a month there and the world will end at such a pace. A month of cancer, a month of peace, a month without family. Confusion and corrosion as rain slowly turns to snow and rots the insides of the trees to spring. You get on a plane and you can have your summer and your spring and the lonely winter. You can get on a train and you can rewind time, but is three hours really worth the six? Will it change anything, or bring anyone back?
Jokes are for people who don’t want to leave and you laugh and laugh and forget to breathe at times.
A fortnight and the cold it brings insinuate themselves under the covers, but would you sleep with days that up and leave in the morning? Three coffee cups become two, yet beer bottles multiply like rabbits in the recycling and you wonder if they will ever get tired of clacking and breaking and shattering all over the floor so bloody bare feet must shove them away to pace instead in the clearing.
Somewhere a baby calls out to its mother and is answered with the soft shushing sound of the planes dwarfing cars on the highway.
Within a week it is wet and windy and the lit up houses shrug against the persistent cold. Inside happy families eat and laugh and sing and water drips in the basement. On the other side of the planet the buildings are filled with despair as a wonderland of snow unfolds around them, the lights of their windows flickering thoughtfully into the distance. What are they thinking about, standing out on the cold living room floor?
Do you know about the cat that lives up in our attic? He misses you when you’re gone and scratches up the boards so there are none left and you can see the sky from the bedroom floor.
In hospital beds everything is a day. One day that stretches on into eternity and you can’t even move your feet to protest the oatmeal they’ve been feeding you. Around the world again and to the moon: alien doctors look down at you on the operating table under the bright lights, curious and concerned. Who would care if you just closed your eyes? From up here in the white desert landscape, you can see the cities and the seas and it only takes one day to see the world, you only need to wait for the whole planet to turn around.
Have Death, Will Travel
A month, they say. A month here, a month there and the world will end at such a pace. A month of cancer, a month of peace, a month without family. Confusion and corrosion as rain slowly turns to snow and rots the insides of the trees to spring. You get on a plane and you can have your summer and your spring and the lonely winter. You can get on a train and you can rewind time, but is three hours really worth the six? Will it change anything, or bring anyone back?
Jokes are for people who don’t want to leave and you laugh and laugh and forget to breathe at times.
A fortnight and the cold it brings insinuate themselves under the covers, but would you sleep with days that up and leave in the morning? Three coffee cups become two, yet beer bottles multiply like rabbits in the recycling and you wonder if they will ever get tired of clacking and breaking and shattering all over the floor so bloody bare feet must shove them away to pace instead in the clearing.
Somewhere a baby calls out to its mother and is answered with the soft shushing sound of the planes dwarfing cars on the highway.
Within a week it is wet and windy and the lit up houses shrug against the persistent cold. Inside happy families eat and laugh and sing and water drips in the basement. On the other side of the planet the buildings are filled with despair as a wonderland of snow unfolds around them, the lights of their windows flickering thoughtfully into the distance. What are they thinking about, standing out on the cold living room floor?
Do you know about the cat that lives up in our attic? He misses you when you’re gone and scratches up the boards so there are none left and you can see the sky from the bedroom floor.
In hospital beds everything is a day. One day that stretches on into eternity and you can’t even move your feet to protest the oatmeal they’ve been feeding you. Around the world again and to the moon: alien doctors look down at you on the operating table under the bright lights, curious and concerned. Who would care if you just closed your eyes? From up here in the white desert landscape, you can see the cities and the seas and it only takes one day to see the world, you only need to wait for the whole planet to turn around.