empowering the quietened quitting with blessings
we bear witness to the tender ministrations of potent healer ophiuchus
we marvel at the stunning dedication to the darker vocation
never seems to tire of consigning early retirement with force-multiplier..
as here..
another football player can no more outrun his tripwired walls
lined with amped-up self-organising treacle
he clutches at himself as beneath his stretch-shirt he rents
he lurches a hop-skip sidelong from his extant spirit
for whose kingdom might he succumb to phantoms for the embrace of the python
for it seems the clean-living athlete is luminescing
guided to vials he lit upon luciferase..
the time-lapse filmed flower vividly wilts
the balletic slow-motion grand jete cum swan-dive
the way the boy crumpled over
terrified out his wits
for no player was near
because the players that really count rarely are
self-appointed and rarefied
they rarely need tangle with our regulated shared air..
the all-too-familiar eeriness thus descends
as in sports events up and down planet earth now almost every weekend..
close-up of the manager with his hands on his hips
as a switch excruciatingly slowly flicks
his gaze across the green
vacuum-packs inescapable dead air for fortune mammon-piss metamorphoses..
his conscience its own martyred magnetar
crash-crumples out his suit-jacket a red card
strips him bare in moments
the rabbit holes vent through
magnetising him to the rings of steel
one ring after another
spangling gravity with serrating karmic glue..
so the boss gazes across the melting emerald
as a young prone soul lies uncollected
they both blink and shrink beneath the baleful light
pressing prescient possibilities
sad as a farewell to a blade of all-weather plastic grass
perhaps with a young promising name to be engraved upon it later
with the heart symbol welded to a canned ocean of rattling silence..
so what kind of foul scythed this lad-child down
collapsing in folding chairs
the same kind of foul that now so eloquently fells the fans
and where his also tremoring girlfriend looks on inkling from the stands..
the golden manager tilts
his heart also misses more than a beat
he glances to the physio eyeless
then pulls together his fracturing facets of self
composes his eyes open wide to again play along
humming noise to an occulted given anthem
we see the owner in the stands anxiously listening on the phone
as the disembodied directors in the boardroom conference call
their zeitgeist static always there in spirit..
on the radar is that incoming missile
the mirage a missile miraged
equivocal statements the product placement
like a swiss finishing school-trained shrug of the shoulders
studiously paced elegantly vacant..
around the ground a jet stream silence cleaves
as players and high-viz demi-spectral beings crowd above him
that weird silence cloaks a weirder science still
wrapping expanding ushering the midfield general off the stage
his jaundiced face is the death-clown applause from the fans
what will var have to say about this
back to the studio
the experts will help us understand
he fell over
not sure why
we should not speculate..
under a foil blanket
the sound of interference crackles
vanishing a player down the tunnel to flashes
vending another coincidence for the nervous sponsors
lining verdant the pockets of lab-coat dealers
at warp speed..
by the bye
we were informed by the mainstream quite recently
of the reason for all the excess deaths of the elderly in the uk last summer..
climate change
well what else would it be..
i am sure we can all relate
i had to use my usb mini-fan on at least four occasions in august
temperatures rose well above room temperature
i sweated a few thimbles..
and we all recall how the elderly battled their way to the shops
all while the novel desert winds blasted their cardiganed bodies and bobbled faces
jackals howled as rattlesnakes hissed like trapped air from almost-banned hosepipes
and as vultures sensed another premature granny death
they circled and looped and swooped laconically overhead
later someone close may have muttered an afterword..
if only she had covered up her bare arms..
a very english kind of excess death
for a very twenty-first century..
for as the elderly playfully fried crumpets on the starched pavements
dreamily sipping mescaline from the hacked blackpool cacti
they were caught unawares by the sting of scorpions
hiding right out in the open covering the cracks nearby
the sting of scorpions
and all for the love of a proto-ritual
scorching scorpions and scorchio..
excess deaths
what a phrase..
almost as glad with itself as..
fake news
unintended consequences
collateral damage..
as glad with itself as..
social distancing
safe and effective
and..
trust the science..
and coming as soon as yesterday
azov battalion are good nazis..
those poor elderly souls
struck down because of climate change
that two-minute walk slayed them
thank goodness they will not require central heating this winter
or will the winter excess deaths be ascribed to unusually cold weather
made by russians
snap for the cold weather snap perhaps..
yet last summer they died because of climate change
as the unforgiving sun
beat down on their balding rare-vinyl pates
peeling their skin stripped bare lasered with uncut vitamin-d
so that even the nano-tech could not reboot them
so targeted they were by the lashing unforgiving unshielded sunbeams..
so alas one last roll of the furry dice
before they passed through the pearly gatefold sleeve in the sky
greeted perhaps by an open-armed white-robed bernard manning
press ganged by a mischievous deity to be a beaming galactic light-being..
perhaps jim bowen welcomed them
you probably know you are dead
okay smashing
in this kingdom there are many caravans
you can rent them out
but you can never leave ..
enough of these otherwordly hosts
back to the football..
after the substitute sprints on
a free kick is returned to the opposition goalkeeper
more applause
sportsmanship..
the goalkeeper quickly volleys the ball up to the other end of the field
the checkerboard orb spins and arcs between the static lines
there a striker collects and scores very clinically..
after the match both managers are interviewed
the losing manager does the obviously disappointed-thing
and the winning manager when asked
about his carried-off player
parries..
yeah he is being given the once-over
we will know more soon
he is a good lad..
it was a strange kind of foul..i mean fall
we want him to be well
of course we do
depending on the next draw we might play at marburg soon..
then glancing away from the camera
after a pause he whispers to the distant cigar-smoking seashells..
you know after all..
though some things are bigger than football
we should not speculate
it could be due to..to a wide range of reasons..
he strikes more pregnant lacuna
the deadened guitar feedback already smashed windows prepared earlier
as lightning strikes an emptying-shaped pool..
and our fans can rest assured
we have enough players in the squad to..to cover him..
thankfully our owners have provided the critical depth
so whatever happens he will be covered
rest assured
he will be covered..
