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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