Until Further Notice


I braved the storm today.
Masked up,
arms bare.
Dystopian mode operational.
Filtering out the sandy wisps.
Scouting out the wasteland
for some pasta
and a couple packs of crisps.

I’m the protagonist of this story.

Britain’s answer to Mad Max
with snacks instead of gas.
A tribute in the Hunger Games,
satisfying hunger pains.
Legs burning
like the turning wheels on a
red iconic bike.

I refuse to be left to fester

Fuck New York
Escape from Leicester

.

Is what I’d like to say.
I don’t think I could survive
another day
without turning my life
into some kind of tv show.

Pretend this is all scripted;
That I could’ve predicted
how fast
they wrote the plot twist in it.
And how in just one minute,
it wiped out half the cast.

I thought I wanted chaos
and disruption.
My own personal dystopia.
Be a hero.
The survivor.
Find the cure.
Scavenge the supplies
with Katniss in the cornucopia.

But there's no co-actor.
The set has changed
to a desert made of concrete.
They limited the actors;
stuck us filming on location
so we cannot meet.
Scenes are boiled down
to the government's daily prompt.
A result of workers swamped
by a nasty case of writer’s block.
With more and more creatives
put out of commission,
afflicted by this condition,
the director made a decision
on how to save the show.

Until further notice,
put it on hiatus.

.

No announcement yet
on the season’s next return date.
We’ve just been told to wait
Alone.
At home.
Do our part.
Stay out of the way
while they sort
the mandatory delays.

Entertain ourselves
in the unavoidable boredom.

.

What I wouldn’t give
for the old school monotony,
by way of self-autonomy.
There’s beauty in the details
of the tiniest bit of freedom.
But I can give it up.
Stock up.
Stay locked in isolation.
Wander hallways of recycled backdrops.
Live the tedium
of improv comedy.
A temporary gig.
A momentary remedy.
Good practice
as I’m watching in the wings.
waiting by the stage,
keep an eye on things
until further notice.

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