The shadow man shakes hands all down the line, listening and nodding like a tired jazz drummer just phoning it in. He arranges phonemes into lullabies, into lullabies, into the coo-coo-coo of pigeons shitting on untidily parked cars. His big boots are too shiny for this. His expensive scarf is a loose noose. He’s a hangman of high renown, his hands never shaking as he draws cords tight, leaving assurances dangling, their toes stretching for solid commitments. He’s pumping out the same old line, the same old line, keeping time like a rock drummer carved against the sea, downer-doped, listless, and nodding off to the oink-oink-oink of circling pigs shitting on boarded-up departure lounges (by which – let’s be clear – we mean hospitals, schools, fire stations, universities, and all the other fragments shored against our ruins), shrugging off responsibility, shadowing sincerity, and pocketing the change which is as good as cardiac arrest. He’s dumbing down his responses, drumming fingers into dirt, with a serious commitment to grandiose follies, to grandiose follies, to the chick-chuck-chuck of fattened chickens and innovative plans for slaughter in his sleep. We’re talking deep shadows here, and when it all comes clattering down and someone calls emergency services, there’ll be nothing but an ad hoc drum circle bashing out hold music while all this shit really hits the fan.
Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor