Bubbles

Hey all,

You know those times when you were a kid and you played with bubbles, big ones, small ones etc. We used to have a clown that came around to our place, he'd have a big soapy tub and then have these small plastic and much greater bubble blowers (is that what you call them?). You don't have to be little to see the magic in bubbles.

Of course, readers you've probably already guessed these bubbles are a bit different to the bubbles at the sort of parties I described above. As with a lot of my writing, I love injecting the sinister into something so simple and pleasant. I won't describe what scene plays out in the poem, but it's an interesting experiment to try and invert an idea. Maybe I can try the other way around for a change. I apologise for the melancholy in my words, but for anyone whose read this far and wants to keep going, thanks again, you're the reason I keep writing. You may be modest in number, but that makes you all the more precious to me :)

Until next time...

Bubbles

Bobbing gently bobbing
above the reeds below the surface
the dull brown surface
Water gentle but rubbing
numbing

Bubbles below his air and life
air drifting up
through the screen of
murk and mud

as he gently silently bobs
invisibly numbly bobs
bobs below the screen
unseen

They do not see
the obscene stream of life
choked down below
smokestacks of bubbles
desperate stacks of grey dying bubbles

life is buoyant
but bubbles discharge
sinking fast
sinking eternal

no more bubbles...