Saturday, 21 July 2012

Membrane

Sky like a square of grease-proof paper banded over the mouth of a Kilner jar.

The cattle-like bellow of a ship’s horn. Low deep rumble, three long blasts followed
by the mice squeak of a fast wheel.

Out on the road, the long highway heads north.
A blue convertible. Another membrane stretched down tight on the three occupants
who sweat like cheese.

There’s an etiquette, isn’t there, to driving a car or being passenger.

Car manners.

If you are at the wheel you have a job: you’re the host, the master of the rolling ceremonies.

Similar responsibilities lie with the passenger. You have to know how to behave once invited into this travelling room.

In an office, far from these things red, pink, yellow Post-It notes stuck down on PCs,
desks, files of paper.

The words mean nothing. You

COULD START TO COMPILE A LIST OF YOUR OWN

while you make the best of things as shapes like tadpoles move under the membrane of sky.

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