29th September, '06

Any journey
longer than the battery life
on his iPod
is much too long,
and often,
not worth taking.

But, perhaps, with the right songs,
he reasons,
he might just get through
even this one.

His in-flight playlist
is at hand,
a special song for take-off,
Come fly with me, let’s fly let’s fly awayand one just before
he lands,
for every situation
a different band,
each song carefully chosen,
with the volume
set to loud.

Admittedly,
there are a few surprise
entries on the list,
but he has found
that what sounds like
rubbish
on the ground, often
scales new heights
of profundity in
the clouds.

And so with R Kelly
yelling about how he
believes he can fly,

I used to think that I could not go on
And life was nothing but an awful song...

he sits back and closes his eyes,
it’s going to be okay.

I believe I can soar,
See me running for that open door…

“Sir, could you turn off your electronic device please, it could interfere with our in-flight navigation systems.”

He surrenders meekly
as the plane taxies down
the runway.
Daft, after all,
to expect her to know
that the cube of chrome
he clutches in sweaty palms
is a security blanket,
life-jacket, and inflatable
raft, all rolled into one.

"Flight attendants, prepare for take-off please."
The spring of hope
dissolves into a wave
of apprehension;
ebbing and flowing,
in the pit
of his stomach.
The tiny screen in front of him
displays a nose-eye view
of the flight,
but he can’t bear to watch
as the ground disappears,
first from beneath his feet
and then sight.
He feels himself lurch
forward, free-falling,
into open skies,
hope and belief and R Kelly all gone,
all he is left with
is the smell of stale oxygen,
(like the inside of a church)
and the strange
infantile urge
to cry.