Memoirs of a Life Unlived

They start to appear, blobs of moss on rock. Then you realise you’ve passed them so many times and wonder who else sees them. Fresh bruises, cuts, florid skin splash colour on the London drab. You sense hierarchy: old guard decorated lividly, guttural. Lower ranks hang on every growl and new recruits - still in mufti - could be Salvationists but for those cans gripped like rifles. Unnerved by the one who stares just too long, you wrestle with your ugliness and maybe your call-up.

He waited and slammed on the pedal too late -  she checked her hair and pulled the trigger - he made the phone call - pushed the button -  signed the papers. Look at these acts stripped down to parts and wires, repeat the clich és,   gawk at geared outcomes, while everything thunders on reducing your concerns to this handful of words.

wait until the time comes choose a mood to be in twist the knife and then some wake to find a ruin