Sooner or later it’s about angels. News of heaven is so available, coughing behind you in the library or when you’re on the toilet. One day you’re playing the saxophone, fingering its long throat, you’re emptying your lungs. You think this is like dying, the angel in the corner puckering its lips to the taste of reeds. Just keep blowing. Angels come from the world of silence. They don’t even hear themselves. Doesn’t mean they’re not talking all the time. It’s what they’re condemned to. Hey, hey, look up! You see right through them. Ignoramuses speaking into your ear. Just don’t listen.
John Allman | Autumnal Contents | Mudlark No. 48 (2012)