Modern Life Is Rubbish

Those bare cables are dangerous, they flow now endlessly out of the last remaining buildings the last remaining memory of a place gone almost completely, there are klaxons that howl every day at noon, someone twitched and they can’t be stopped, like kids playing a sick joke, stone throwers, glue assholes.

‘We have to start again’ said one of the older men but it seems like way too much work and where would we start?

Resembling a vacant lot in the centre a large set of buildings where the roofs are long gone, letting in some sun when the clouds say okay, you see forever with slow smoke still coming up from beneath the ground, there’s nothing left. Before this grey day and the flash they called it, we were asleep, we never saw the legend, we only dreamed of the legend, we did see warnings, we were told about some rumbling revolt  that the chance was there if we took it, we could help stop a change but that sounded so crap, clichéd and rhetorical, we had heard the big belly man sing at the rally, no-one gave a shit for the opera, we kept on kept going and drilling and finding not running, taking what was obviously not around anymore thinking that our way was the only way. Smelly greed foresaw by a small mess of men was ignored, they would sometimes send a small plane across the sky, one for every city full of a6 leaflets that were simple with a message, I can’t remember what they said – gone from my head. But I did know the man who helped make them, he would stand with me on some of the colder days and drink tea I made never charging him because he said little and when he said it had meaning, true feeling. I would be eternal glad when he spoke ‘you have to leave, you have to go soon, all this will be gone, all will be dead’ I don’t listen often enough to the right people but he nearly had me drop everything there and then, he told me he worked on the ‘Drops’ – those leaflets with messages intent on turning us around, they knew something everyone ignored but was truth nonetheless.

‘We’re moving back onto the streets’ he said it like a child would say thank god for this Saturday ‘Posters’ remember them he said! ‘We’re making new posters’ his eyes alive over the tea cup edge but a small group of women come by staring wanting to know what we talked about, I serve them tea and they know something more is turning here, one younger one looks back and I say to ‘message man’

‘What’s on these new posters?’ ‘No No’ – he says, ‘I couldn’t tell you that, very big job’ Frowning ‘there’s that secret thing again, the death of us again, closed doors and you’re not  in again. How many envelopes full of long range favours have greased hands across and under tables to get us here, turning good food into mould and queues down the block, down to the front of my dreadful tea stand’ I wipe the rage off my face. He starts laughing, the klaxon goes off again and the message man is laughing ‘Okay Okay I’ll send you one, I’ll give it to my good friend who’s a postman even though there’s no post anymore he still thinks he has a job around here watch out for him he’ll have a black tube, that’s the secret, that’s the one to watch for, Good tea!

The dark comes in and I roll the shop down the road to the car park and key into a room full of books and candles.

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