The Coming Battle
In the outer space of the space under the hedge in my front Garden
Anglo Saxon Warriors are constructing a bridge
I have no defence against such.
In the Super Nova that is the corner shop of Mr. Mohammed
Tell tale signs of mutual domination are making signs behind the canned goods aisle.
This small estate is housing mostly desperate us that is the desperate of chock full, pent up, moon landing emotions.
It’s a tethered balloon straining at the fraying rope of memories and unforgiving attitudes.
Only those youth on small motorbikes seem free enough to rev so loudly over the starlit twilights of our Monday nights.
I haven’t seen their faces, but their helmets gleam when the night has quenched the fading gleam of dying light.
In the Black Hole that is our Gap, in front of our Kerb, our red car waits, not crouching but inanimate;
I’m crouching under the illusion of the soon battle and my armour remains unpolished