Letter 134 (Hobbes' Vision)
The people would chant the songs they learnt to hunt for, in the good old days. They would hum of war amongst the humdrum of the poor, chanting “I w IL l dr ink your cuP Of p o ISON” as it rattled through the cities of the divinely assassinated, as their tongues touched the earth and their heads filled with sky. They looked at men and declared “You’ve done nothing wrong”, the law was the imaginations fingertips which touched the state. They felt democracy fall before them like a whore at a whip, and when it cracked her limbs shook in submissive tears of sweat. The screens of power kept flickering before their eyes.
Then came the first eruption. From prison cells came boys with bombs and out of firey eyes came burning buildings, out of cracked ribs came archaic bodies. And as institution fell into into the jaws of the leviathan, there came hints of haunting, brisk strokes from the lips of history, with the chapped skin bleeding whispers of what was and what is. The musicians began singing of a shifted tide, but it was too late. The whimpers of the young could not be translated by keys because their wood would burn and tone would fall. Synthesis became a necessary force of evolution until plug sockets blew and the warps became blurs, ink on a past that was held by the bigger men.
As it all happens a child is born. Their mother sings a grandfathers mantra, to put things to sleep whilst eyes flicker; “I’m not here, this isn’t happening.” She prays to gods of shrapnel, as they riccochet through her, tainting out her last word, which tiny hands could never touch.
