Language lost in the oxygen system,
Masks, limp, given up on any sign,
Of a face, a mouth, a nose,
Air-traffic control at a loss,
Middle age cupped in tired hands,
Caffeine spilt, monitors as still,
As the day they rolled off the assembly line,
It is unusual to lose all communication,
Even the beep, beep, beep and squelch,
Of internalised citizens band,
We shall have silence like land was once flat,
Light unheard, undefined, scrambled,
At the fringes of comprehension,
Control tower rendered useless,
As eyes that have seen it all,
From religion to re-birth,
Family members involved in the theft of coins,
From a grandmother that would give her heart,
Animals eating animals,
Animals forced on animals,
Worthless imagery and frames,
Flickering by a disenfranchised youth,
(Wasted on pathetic youth.)
We all come face to face with existence,
The planes landing on the runway, one by one,
Cockpit and fuselage filled with blobs of blue gas.

I penned this in an airport waiting lounge yesterday, not realising the date I was writing it until after the event. The idea I had, was not of destruction and violence, but of aeroplanes landing on a runway with nobody inside, purely clouds of blue gas.

The Windups

There they are!
Easily detected,
Three of them,
In the grounds of the bungalow,
By the edge of the dual carriageway,
Two men, one woman,
Block colour clothing,
Red, green and blue shirts,
Denim dungarees,
One mowing, the other raking,
Hanging washing on the line,
Each charged with their own chore,
Left, right, forward, back,
Programmed to perfection,
Confined to the garden,
Permanent smiles dashed,
Across pink faces,
Little jets of steam,
Rising from their ears.