First Wave

My brother's home is his fortress.
The drive is a runway.
The garage is a hangar.
Cars and SUV's ready for deployment.

His handshake is a hot clamp.
"Make yourself at home, bro.
I'll put on the coffee."

When I turn on the 80-inch plasma TV
it practically knocks me back
with a sound like a swinging lightsabre.
Ten million channels.
The control box is roughly akin
to the kind of vibrator
I imagine SinSin's keep in a secret wallsafe
with black and yellow stripes across it
under the floor behind the counter.

The window is that of an aircraft control tower.
The back garden is Eden, a hippy paradise
straight out of Silent Running.
Greenery glows like its part of the set
of a nostalgia-driven BBC2 country drama.

Two skwerls backwards helter-skelter pell-mell
up the trunk of a pine tree.
A whirlwind of skwerls.

"So, why the flying visit?"
My brother hands about a pint of coffee to me
and puts his own down on a fat cork coaster.

"You and your family are in terrible danger," I say.
"Thay explosion on Friday was no accident."

"The saucers?" he asks, then throws back his head.
"Ha ha! Let them come. We're ready for anything."

"You don't understand," I say,
as the TV blinks off
like a colossal mouth blowing us a kiss.