Posted in Antarctica


14 years after its projected expiry date
the airfield mess was still in use
still the same size
still with the same number of seats
but now feeding 200 not 100.

Space was tight in the kitchen
every spare centimetre gold
every space increasing innovation utilized
the bread slicer moved to the serving room
sliced loaves put next to butter and condiments.

One morning at breakfast
a man is dropping pieces of bread into blade spaces
they fall through
“hey man,” he bellows
“your toaster’s all fucked up.”

For the back story click Backstage



Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.

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