I don’t write poetry anymore since they started killing poets.

At first it was hard, suppressing the urge to use words to create sensation. I’d be strolling past the market, marking the noises and colours, the smell of frying fish and spices, the ruddy faced men and women hawking improbable bargains, and my mind would start weaving, words hammered into my brain and governed the rhythm of my steps. And then I’d see someone looking at me, in confusion, shaking their head then staring.

The Imaginophiles, the Secret Police who watch over us, checking for signs of insurrection, of wisdom, of poetry. The underground leafleters say they’ve had special implants that detect the pattern of brainwaves in those of us the state has declared dangerously different. First it was the political activists, the intellectuals, but after the first four waves of cleansings most of those changed their medium and hid their thoughts in verse. Turns out that wasn’t such a great move as the rhythms of poetic brainwaves are easier to detect, and they fine tuned the implants and put a target on our heads too. The romantics, the spiritual, the metaphysical, even the comedic scribblers of limericks. If the Imaginophiles clock our brainwaves they put a tag on them that makes it simple for the drones to find us.

The drones come at night. If you’re tagged they see you clear as day. They don’t just take you out. Your whole building is annihilated. Families, neighbours. Anyone who you might have infected.

If this guy is one of them I’m screwed. He’s young. They mainly are. Most are recruited as kids, taken from their parents and brutalised, indoctrinated, their familes threatened at any sign of insubordination. They are ruthless and they are programmed to hate us.

This one has a look of distaste, his eyes narrowed, lips curled. He cranes his neck, scanning the street.

In the old days you could put a song in your head to scramble them. Doesn’t work since the upgrade to the implants. Brain patterns look like heat maps and any rhythm is immediately detected. So I think very hard about the price of fish. Of the latest gossip about celebrities. About how kids have no respect any more. I sigh and tut as somehow acting through the thoughts makes the thoughts look more genuine. I am very careful not to think beautiful words. The uglier the thought the less likely I am a poet.

I AM NOT A POET. I HATE THOSE SCUMMY BASTARDS! HANG THEM ALL!

His face and body relaxes.

At night I watch buildings disappear in flashes of light. It’s silent. No time for screams.

My daughter asks “Daddy why do they hate us?”

I can’t answer. Even if I was in poet mode (WHICH I AM NOT!) I could not find the words.

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Hazel Humphreys  – facebook.com/hazel.m.humphrey

swivenhoefunnyfarm.wordpress.com

Image courtesy of Dan Lacey

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