Saturday, 7 December 2013

Trochees are Evil, Iambs are Good

Catastrophic burn-lines emanate from
tar melt, cracked nun-chuck attack marks explode
showering civilians with blinding grit specks.
Joy slips brightly past his grinning hate-smile.

I swing my blade and desperately jump through
the gaping mouth of empty market tents
to make a tear that sets the fabric free.
The canvas billows in the Tesco-wind
and flows out from the door like moving smoke
to cloak the burning fountain at its source.

Killers fear no petty weak manoeuvres,
track-suit guy goes dashing fast towards the
crashed bus site where bombs may still be locked-on
not blown, prepped to boom and kill commuters.

I spot the semtex oblong in its nest
no time to reach it, he will get there first,
I have to do the most heroic thing
and call the transport-daemon from the sky.
It means fighting two enemies at once,
natural and supernatural foes combined
at least the daemon won’t let him explode
the bus, they serve mercurial deity’s.

One-ear snaps to awareness on hearing
thaumic chanting bursting behind him now.
Knowing what I’m doing clearly shocks him.
Racing for the bomb would now be pointless.
Turning now towards me, lip-reading my
ghastly soliloquy, recognising
what is coming now from out the black air.

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