In The Night Factory

True bombs never land on our home towns. No missiles will land on our domiciles. Then there are the so called terrorist projectiles, passed through hands, placed secretly onto trains, riding with the passengers, cosying up to and resting against your under-sides. Every journey you get closer to bombs. Bombs, bombs everywhere you look. No bomb is a bomb until a bomber decides, then you get fragments all inside you and over you, hundreds and thousands of metallic messages. The evil menace then becomes flashed up on many news reels, political campaigns run with it, documentary retrospectives inform you about it, loosing its impact, loosing its steel. But there are always more out ready to re-new their charge, competing with the terror exchange; learning from experience, hiding on your journey home, watching where you rest and where you clatter on your computer desk. You think bombs can go flying and come to rest, in your tea and down your string vest. You fidget and scratch but that itch is still there. Itch, itch, itch, and then boom bam boom! Another person’s life is, sadly, and needlessly, over too soon.

Labels: bombs, journey, land, messages

# posted by Neil @ 1:57 am