The Bombs & the Bells

by

The Bombs & the Bells

Bombs are the same as bells. But you fear the bombs and not the bells.
When a handful of rocks is slung by the brittle hand of a bitter black grandfather,
you flee like a stray cat from the loose shrapnel – and never notice the ringing
voice that explodes in painful waves of sound. This is the sadness of the noise
on Earth. Not because the auditory images curl around industrial gloom, the
imagined disadvantage of mortals. It’s simpler than that. Floating gravel never
flies at the real you. It tumbles to mirage destinations you are vaguely aware of –

destinations that communicate like dead soldiers with dead phones in their
shredded pockets. When there is nothing to communicate, silence does not
solder objects and mistake calm terror for comfort. It’s simpler than that. Silence
never approaches the mystery of relationship. That would be the birds and the
bees (when this is the bombs and the bells) – which is the birds and the bees
with the absence of angles. Half mast, your mind is a consideration, not yours to
consider. Silence is the clanging of metal as angels pirouette into an honest fiction.

But bombs are the same as bells – let’s not forget why we’re here and show our
incongruent faces. The world is as it should be – there are golden bells who
want to ring. They’re ringing like submarines with bombs and bells that live beyond
earshot. There are gentle bombs who want to fall. They’re falling with bombs and
bells like autumn leaves, a golden breeze that nothing can feel. The world is as it
should be – bombs and bells reverberate at once. But you deny this unison with your
un-savvy politics forgetting there is nothing to fear. Half mast, carry on and be considered.

0