facing the sack
The shop floor is a faded beehive on this very day: soul
after soul crumpled up dead on the smoking heap of prices and tags and codes
and notes. Eyes jumping from rock to rock, bed to bed, the gleaming canyons of
heaven vomited onto a canvas of shit: oh wool, knitted, draping jumper; oh so
crumpled and green and soft, as the ocean round england’s rocky shore.
The man had his focus set from the starting whistle, eyes
narrowed and hair waxed straight in furious needles. What more could I say to
the chap, as he marched through the clicking switching flinching trench: Oi!
Fucking move that jumper you prick! Hurry up! Oi! You! You! Move!
But in that moment I glimpsed him naked, eyes swiped bright
and fresh and live with the burning wires of panic, a crippling shock which
sent fear sprinting in a rattle through his every limb and hair. The rope had
been tugged and the faceless hand twitched: a tremor in the stakes of a man’s
living, the earth only laughing as it started to shatter beneath sprinting
feet.
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