Muswell Hill Time Travellers

Abe says we're getting too old.
He's right. We use the machine so much
we're ageing twice as fast as the world.
In a decade, we might be older than our parents.

Abe is concerned by this. He paces.
'We should have been cautious,' he mutters,
'We should have thought of this. There were portents.'

We didn't.
From the moment we realised the machine worked
(just like saving your game. Take too much damage -
hit escape. Reload the day, the week,)
we did what anyone would do: admitted
absolute freedom. Skimmed our lives
like stones.

We chased cats. We went out naked.
We got ourselves sacked a hundred ways.
We let oily, roachfish thoughts slip out
from our mouths in front of women
whose legs and eyes were clean white
as albino mice. Even now,
we still start fires in Marks & Spencer.
I take the same girl's virginity every week.

Abe is getting bored. He routinely yells,
'You deserve to be bombed,'
in London Bridge Station. Because he hates the chains.

He's losing it. Poor Abe.
Lately, I've been practicing consequence
free
murder.
Not neck-breaking, knife-driving
urgent grappling with live and slippery hands
but timed
brilliantly timed
explosives.

I like to watch cars fly.