Meanwhile, In Sweden

Human resources -
She works in human resources.
Don't tell anyone.

Sometimes I hear those screams from her basement;
Screams like giving birth to a fully grown and functioning dentist.

Then, after the screams,
There's that familiar matryoshka doll silence.

The crooked blood leaks from her sleek harbinger mouth,
As she carries the sleek heavy-duty plastic refuse bags,
One by one,
To cast into the swollen river, biblical.

The police boats circle, stall, and circle,
As the deathbuoys from Hades bob to the surface.

As she dreams her distilled murmuring slumbers,
A shocked Japanese tourist tries to understand the good policeman manning the cordoned-off bridge,
And what the mystery of the shiny bags,
Thrown by beautiful aitch-ah lady into the seawater, means.

When the beautiful aitch-ah lady comes home,
Bearing a pizza and some wine,
    She whispers:
           Don't ever ask 
Never ask -
   I'm fine...

All right then.
She knows my view on the dead-eyed sharks that throb and thrive,
the liquidiser planet: Human Resources.

At night,
Sometimes she slips down the stairwell,
To banshee-howl with the cats in the alleyway outside.
The owls never twi-twoo along to the a capella jazz from hell..

I'm not sure what she sees in me either.
You see,
People working in human resources have also been disappearing from this city.
She never asks why I sometimes have a spaced-out look as I walk through the door,
Entrails swinging wildly around my neck.
She just tut-tuts and suggests:
Have a shower if you like -
Your favourite long-life organic lentil soup is defrosting
in the new solar-powered microwave -
You've got time.

We watch a Swedish detective..
He's striding towards a caravan in the middle of a field by the motorway.
And you can tell even his coffee has a hangover and needs a couple of aspirin..

He opens the door,
There's no-one inside.
So he takes a look around.
Close up: photos and newspaper clippings -
They're all dead!
Dead! except...except for her..
A realisation - boom!
His face twitches: she's next!
He tears off that photo as tyres screech outside:
It's him, the bastard!
He stumbles.
A Saab Estate careers toward the motorway.
He's going to fucking Norway!
It's only twenty minutes..!
Now the detective runs, stumbling across the field,
Screaming to a colleague down the phone...

Cut to..
Her phone rings.
She looks at the phone,
But she needs to open this special-delivery parcel.
What's in this parcel?
She's puzzled.
She looks at the phone again.
She looks at the parcel.

A pulsating bass arises..
The detective screams again, stranded in the field,
Wild-eyed, desperate.
He closes his eyes.
The sounds of the motorway fade -
Just his heavy breathing now - full volume.
Cut to black.

Suki SpanglesSwedish TV detectivespost-rock poetrypost-rockhuman resourceshumourhumorous poetrywork

◄ Tycho (Deviationist Astronaut And The Zany Karmic Architect)

The Transcendentalist ►


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