Appetite for Distraction – Another Day.

He wakes up. A journalist rummaged through the luggage of dead people. It disgusts people even though it is what journalists do every day. A tacit agreement we have with them that we get to read what they write about tragedy as long as we don’t have to be complicit in how they discover that tragedy. It was too much for us. We do not want to see how the sausage is made. The Senate votes to support bombardment of Gaza. Even the progressive heroes of the left. Children shields? No one cares. An excuse to flex anti-Semitic muscles on one hand an excuse to shake heads at the horror of civilian death on the other. Then there are all the other hands begging reaching grasping. This is what nation states do to perceived enemies. They expunge they delete they bleach it is wrong it has been done before it will be done again the lodz ghetto is now the Gaza refugee camp will be the Detroit forbidden zone will be the Birmingham prison city. Grind your families into paste we will all be Soylent Green one day. The clown of international law raises its buffoonish head above the parapet and is exploded by a sniper’s bullet but it’s okay folks that was just a balloon full of ketchup with a clown face drawn on it international law is safe and sound in an undisclosed bunker ready to be used by those with the most power as and when it suits them. He drinks a chai. He is in a library surrounded by books. It is pleasant. He reads that 66% of Americans now live in places that are not covered by the constitution which seems like a lot of Americans. Everyone is not the slug on the razor blade but more and more are joining it slowly slicing itself as it inches forward slowly splitting in two. He writes. He travels on public transport. He eats a tasty black bean burger. He shuts off from news. Objective news is shut off. He travels into another world. A place of giants and vikings. The end of the world. All the gods are dead. It is melancholy. Tribes wandering in the icy wastes the dry deserts the lush jungles. All lost. He goes to sleep.

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The Sleepcoat League

Armchair anthropologist, sometime scribe, freelance philosopher, amateur artist, part-time poet, musical maven, alliteration aficionado.

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