Don’t

And finally, finally, after an eternal journey through the light and dark, several opportunities. The Jellyfish Spaceship, guided at the helm by the Captain and crewed by the Hoi Poloi, whilst she Sphinx watched the stars go by, made its way to the Planet of the Rose, who was. What didn’t they do? Drop a bomb.

Under a glass dome, unruffled by the little breezes that might, unworried by the sheep that might, watered in timely fashion, succoured by the slight rays of the sun, the little Rose, resplendent, two thorns and three leaves. Someone has been responsible, said she Sphinx, I approve. Arbiter?

I don’t know what it means. Who is responsible for who, who is tame and who is wild, but it can be done. Then the stars are not empty.

Finally, is there ever a final moment or just a continuation, a process, travelling towards or away from.

Stop now, arriving they disembarked and found the Rose.

You shouldn’t drop bombs, plates or glasses on the kitchen floor. You shouldn’t throw stones or small creatures across the room. You shouldn’t pull faces or the thread that unravels civilisation. You shouldn’t practise the violin on Saturday morning, when everyone’s asleep, or rattle the bins at midnight when it’s the foxe’s turn. You shouldn’t shout on the high street or sing in the under pass, it only frightens the children. You shouldn’t write graffiti in your diary but record the passing of any intelligence still clinging on, on this particular rock of the solar system. Perhaps wave politely as it passes the moon?

If there is none left, then us miners must go delving once more, to replenish that jar at the back of the kitchen shelves, the one which is overlooked after the apocalypse.

You shouldn’t point the finger, unless you know the way. You shouldn’t overtake on the inside or upset grandma or the applecart.

You shouldn’t rant and rave, drop a clanger or put your foot in it. You shouldn’t pile on the misery, cry wolf or powder your nose, its not fit for purpose.

Don’t undo what’s been done, don’t unpaint the masterpiece or scramble the poetry. Please don’t let the tyrants persuade the turkeys to vote for Christmas, just please don’t.

Its not allowed, everybody says so. Surely, we all agreed not to, not after the last time. They all sat down together, all the important people, and agreed. It probably took all day and all night. They had to stop to eat and sleep and all the other essentials, but they did it, in the end they agreed not to do it, ever again, even if they were angry or hurt. Even if someone took their bicycle or drove across their precious lawn. They said, No, lets talk about this, we can come to a resolution, any time now.

You mustn’t fidget, don’t play with that, its dirty, don’t push your chair back loudly or leave your toothbrush in the sink.

Please don’t put that over there, I’m allergic to excitement. Don’t crease it or chew on the corner, don’t leave it on the table, it will make a mark that indicates the passing of time.

Don’t freshen my drink, I’ve had enough. Enough shouting and gesticulating to last. I’ve had enough to eat, sleep and be merry. I’ve had enough for a lifetime or two. My cup runneth over.

Don’t write on my wall, undo my laces, barricade my bathroom. Don’t hog the soap, finish the black olives or eat secret pizza. The world needs to know.

Especially, don’t drop bombs, you might hit a Rose in a glass dome. A wild rose that has been tamed and for whom someone is responsible, cares for and worries about. Someone, somewhere, cares.