Wings
I rushed home last night holding 30p noodles, spring onions, and what was either lobster or pork with unreadable scribbling across the transparent plastic packaging.
I collapsed on my bed in a short term hibernation that lasted until my alarm rang so loud it woke the whole house…
my meat-fish-hybrid had grown wings… but unlike Icarus, it hit the sun straight on… ‘we’re all mutating,’ the bus driver said.
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Tom Bland is a writer and an accidental performance artist. He studied psychotherapy and dream analysis at SOPH and edits the online magazine, Blue of Noon, http://blueofnoonpoetry.tumblr.com.
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