Death March


Trumpet blares bass drum kicks and the seats at the front allow no hiding.

Polite treats combine with platitudes and sherry and middle England’s Barrow

of Sorrow, brought up from the allotment where beer waters beetroot and wine shallots.

I forget my plate is made of paper and it crumples in my hand showering crumbs to the floor to cover my shoes where I stand.

The crumbs scream emptiness into my withering soul which replies with nary a slurp of the finest dry sherry.

It occurs to me that we’re all like birds then comes a bellow and I am shocked back to reality.

A pterodactyl takes the dais and words spoken enlighten us in this dark narrow passage that transforms into a funeral chamber. The words tumble from his lips and I am transfixed upon the sound that possesses and contracts, squeezes and grips. Then its over and he’s had his chips.

Funny How life goes on when you’re not really connected.

Published by Andrew Mark Watkins

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