Moogy Wonderland

The squall of quitars gives way to the scratchy wordings of old synthesisers. The words pour out of us; bad poetry and images of all we could ever think about. Here is a Marxist guitar band who happen to use antique electronics. Here is a clearing in the music where the drums shine through. In the dark we see the music in the middle of our minds, physically colouring the space between our ears. It is just that; our minds are empty, there is space where our brains should be and we would die in this blank space, starved of anything but music. Jenny Ondioline is standing as an MP, with her curls and pretty face we will all vote for her, clear minded and happy that she will turn us around. Only Jenny Ondioline can save us from the suffocation we know now. Spin her words and she will spin back the poetry and paintings in her head. What cross will you mark when the time comes? We have fifteen minutes to mark her down or set her on the pedestal, which shows her policies to the entire world. The cowards shelter in their caves and plan like children for the end of anything they do not like, the ultimate in racism. Jenny knows that they are wrong and she is right. We will find them cowering and put our arms aside and put our arms around them as they cry and shudder in the expectation of the end which never comes. She will give them water and lead them to the blue, under satellites, which only yesterday would have betrayed them to the world. All words are poetry and words will calm the angry, justify the leaders and break the weak. They will deprive the Kings of Kingdoms and make money for the Doctors. Words will end the world.

In the dark, we will listen to the music of the just. We will sigh and turn gently in the comfort of our homes, happy that we and everyone are safe. I have a whole book in this head, a list of characters that must all be me in some small way. The guitar’s squall returns and hunger stalks the world again. The illness cured by pennies has never left this world. Each day my entertainment costs the earth and my use of ink could save the sight of children and save the lives of thousands. I drink ink like water. I use pens like outlaws use a staff. The world of fifteen minutes ends with blot and blood upon the pages. Declarations justified and altered over time are simple obfuscation. The world ends dry and burning, reclaimed by simpler creatures, our distant aunts and uncles united by a tiny chemical. We have our time and it has passed.