Sure Security (England)
When young
it seemed
as if he
was at the center of a world
which would forever go on
revolving about him.
Wherever he looked
the light was shining brightly
and mortality was always
far, far away.
As he grew older
and proceeded through his years,
the world swelled in its vastness.
Soon he was on the edge,
far from the center.
A center which would always seem to be
somewhere else.

For him, now,
there was only darkness.
For him
the light would never return…
there would be nothing to penetrate
all the blackness
which had become of his life.
His
would be life on the peripheral.
His
would be houses on the horizon.
His
would be a day of continuous dusk.
No matter how brightly the sun shone,
his world
would be an obsidian world.

He sat in front of a large luminescent rectangle
and a thousand phosphorescent dots
lay reflected in his eyes.
This was how the light reached him now;
transmitted from the center
via a tinsel coated hanger.

It would seem this week
the center was located somewhere in Texas,
US of A.
This was a place
where "real" people
had "real" problems.
Oh, nothing like paying gas bills;
nothing like coping…
nothing like
the dole.
"They"
were fighting assassins
and corporate takeovers.
"They"
were about oil rights
and the fall fashions.
There was never a fear of being made
redundant.
No,
our cathode hero makes others redundant.
The dialogue this episode:
"Shut that factory down!"
and the hero
fades
to a Caribbean isle.


He,
in his darkened room,
watches this.
He holds a pint of ale up
and watches the light
from the rectangle
distort amidst the glass, fluid and silt.
He (a mere aberration in the script)
has been written off.
His esteem;
his manhood;
his feeling of worth;
his life in the script…
his life as a tragic character the author
never thought worthy of development.

"Reality!",
he wants to bellow;
"Not a fictional multitude.
Reality is one
over two thousand,
and two thousand 'ones'
out of work!"

He looks up
to catch the flickering,
diverted glance of his wife as
she pretends to look past him.
Her eyes focus
on the darkness beyond the window.
His,
from a shielded angle,
upon her.
He perceives a softness in her eyes
and a faint smile forming across her lips.
Something twists inside him,
for he doesn't know
if he can stand the thought
of what she might be thinking.
He knows,
one day,
he will strike her again;
for the smile
and not the lack of it.

Here,
in the shadows,
lie casualties

For now,
the coolness of the glass against his forehead.
For now,
the psuedo-introspection of the light
as seen through a strong glass of ale.

Yes,
there's sure security
here
in this dark
and forgotten
industrial town.

©86 JDH