As I get older I seem to have frequent hazy days, foggy days where I’m not sure if this is reality any longer or some surreal, drug induced sleep.
Picture yourself in a boat on a river, with tangerine trees and….shut the fuck up Lennon, I’m trying to write something here….sorry mate, fab gear, grotty, imagine no possessions….just fuck off please John.
I do apologise for that interruption from a past life. I was just saying that sometimes in life I seem to hover in a cloud, am I out of body, is this actually happening?
I see a bridge, is that a metaphor, no it’s definitely a bridge, metaphor is spelt differently.
It’s definitely a bridge, a bridge in London. I know it’s London because it has concrete barriers, to stop trucks of peace, the words Korancrete and Ackbarriers idly roll through my head. I see it but I don’t understand what is happening.
Marmalade skies, somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly….I’m not going to tell you again Lennon, this is my trance not yours. A group of people surround a man who is wielding knives, some of them are actually filming this although others join in a struggle with him. There are men in uniform present, they look a little like military men but none of them are meter maids. Where’s my lovely Rita, you’re not Rita, is this an onset of my early dementia perhaps?
A couple of shots ring out, a girl with kaleidoscope eyes screams, she almost drops her phone but then it’s over. Newspaper taxis appear on the shore, waiting to take you away. Climb in the back with your head in the clouds and you’re gone. They are lying to me, the newspaper taxis are lying to me, the river still flows beneath the bridge but the waters are now blood red, that’s how I know they are lying to me.
These hazy drugs, whatever they are, they are good shit, man. I can see politicians, they are dressed in black suits and black ties, no looking glass ties today, they are sad but they keep looking at their watches, looking at their phones. Their words of consolation pour out of them, people were lost, their thoughts are with us but I don’t see their actions, I only hear their words and like the people who use those words, they feel empty and hollow.
Lessons will be learnt, this will not change us, the few who seek to divide us, we embrace each other’s differences, perm any three platitudes from the dozens available and win a virtue prize, fire up those tea lights, imagine all the people….not now John please.
Somewhere in the distance though I actually can hear music, very softly I can hear a well known refrain sung in a familiar timbre, Crosby maybe or even the Buble imposter, it’s one of those guys anyway and it’s louder now, “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas”. It certainly is but for how much longer? Little politicians, little Mayors of the city, little police chiefs, little people, little you can do and little hope.
This haze though, this will be over soon, I’ll return to the real world and everything will again be mostly good, we might even win a World Cup again for something, anything, it hasn’t been that long really. Just in those final moments as the mist starts to clear I see a couple of houses.
I can see into their living rooms and I can see an empty chair in each of these houses. I can see an empty chair that belonged to somebody who lived there once, they won’t be coming home again, their family won’t see them again, they won’t even get a chance to say goodbye to them, they just went for a walk, on a bridge, in London. Wake up, don’t let it be and whatever you do, perhaps look back in anger, I know I’m not the only one.
Since writing this late on Friday evening more details have emerged of things we are supposed to know. It appears that ironically one victim was involved in a group for prison reform, ostensibly trying to appease the unappeasable. His father naturally is blaming the government rather than the terrorist.
The dead terrorist was, of course, known to the authorities but still released halfway through his sentence to join the countless others that are waiting to perpetrate similar atrocities. Meanwhile even more are still welcomed here every day.
One of the men who detained the terrorist is a killer out on parole, he has a morbid interest in cutting throats and has previously, on one occasion, taken his interest a stage further. Meanwhile a migrant worker, a Polish chef, also helped to subdue the terrorist by using the tusk of a whale as a weapon.
The terrorist said he wasn’t a terrorist but he actually wanted to kill Boris although, it is said, Boris really instigated the entire attack to help him win an election, one that he shows only minimal interest in winning.
Now as I seesaw between supposed reality and an opioid haze I receive an advert for a lime hybrid mattress and a 65 year old transgender ‘woman’ has just said hello to me on a dating site. Those last two things are the only events I think might have happened but also confirm that possibly none of this is happening.
© Viciousbutfair 2019
The Goodnight Vienna Audio file