So the results are rolling in for the election now. As much as I would love to stay up all night until the last ones come in, my interest does not go that far. I only have so much patience and it does not stretch to caring about the Labour to UKIP swing in Solihull.
As long as we do not wake up tomorrow with Jason Statham as Prime Minister, I think things will pretty much stay the same for the majority of people.
Here is a poem. The Tale of Quinnomenia will continue tomorrow. Then I will get back to my flash fiction and the PM speech I have been doing.
It’s funny the things you notice about someone
when you look deeply at them. The flecks of
amber in an otherwise perfectly black iris.
The grey, almost invisible hairs on the fulcrum.
Three yellow-stained fingers – two a deep burnt
yellow from years as a smoker. The other a fresher,
more textured yellow where they recently cleaned
You could notice the worry-frays on the sleeve
of their jacket, split leather on a belt
with one too many holes.
Maybe you would notice, despite being
outwardly hygienic, they have a very vague,
slightly unpleasant smell about them.
They way they like to dress entirely in red.
How they lie on the floor a lot and do not move.
How they are dead.