The Express

The dark Express Train runs towards us, unstoppable, belching gas and fury. Grey steel, fumes, high pitched engines. There is a grim acceptance of its arrival at the head of the last chance of any peace in our time. Deluded hordes rush towards the tracks, cheering – some out of fear and lack of self-control. Others throw themselves under the greasy wheels. Too many victims to bury in single plots. Screams and wailing and no-one has any idea where to turn to get away from people pushing them forward. Hope finds herself some morphine in a kitchen cabinet and sucks it straight up into the syringe. A quick push down into the barrel, then cold up the vein pumping higher towards the heart. Killing the scene outside for a moment. In the offices of the Elite there are nervous jabberings from underlings in dark suits. More importantly than the swathes of bodies building up in side streets, falling where they taste the blast, jobs are on the line.

And so my morning began. So all of our mornings began.

I sometimes find the news a difficult thing to wake up to. I’d like to say I can avoid it, but I have become a junky to the machinations of terror that are building up around the World at the moment like a huge vortex. In my case, this morning, the precipice we all stand on has driven me to start my anti-psychotics again. I’ll take the blend of fuzzy dullness versus the anxious perma-state of anyone with any real knowledge of what’s going on. Right now, the ignorant are to be envied. There are some things you can’t unsee – like two sweating fat men in suits saluting hordes of frightened soldiers, dreaming about their own respective legacies, and lunch. Two ludicrous haircuts, an ocean apart, driven by madness and the spiky throb of an ego too swollen and rabid to give the owner any rest at all.

Out in the Universe, different eyes watch and wait, appalled. The petri-dish experiment has begun to eat itself and turn into blackened mold. The spores must be contained at all costs. Wiped out completely. Incinerated in industrial ovens. Proof gotten: humans can’t be trusted. A+B=Death (every time).

Ahh, the mental blanket of flupentixol. Metallic taste in my mouth now. Energy sapping. Dull thoughts blunting the needle sharp points of terror aiming at my brain from the images on the screen. Outside, a cat tries to get into my food waste bin. He’s got problems of his own.






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