The Shoot
The Gentry
In God’s rustic lounge, tree veins are threaded
with liqueur. Reminds one of home, dear boy.
One day, cows will be injected with green and
red dyes to match one’s taste in bureaus. Fancy
a tipple from the old hip flask, Charles? Single
malt? Warms the cockles, dear boy.
The broken barrel’s gape swallows up two
cartridges, its dislocated eyes pointed to the ground.
Where the hell have those beaters got to?
(Shouts) Spread out you daft buggers!
The Beaters
Echoes trick the air. Tin cans. Sticks. Dustbin lids.
Cheers, Squire. (tugs forelock sarcastically)
CRACK!
Behold, the confetti of death rapes the air as a
panicked bird leaves the low clouds standing.
Your kill, Sir.
The retriever retrieves. The beaters beat.
Somewhere, an egg hatches.
In God’s rustic lounge, tree veins are threaded
with liqueur. Reminds one of home, dear boy.
One day, cows will be injected with green and
red dyes to match one’s taste in bureaus. Fancy
a tipple from the old hip flask, Charles? Single
malt? Warms the cockles, dear boy.
The broken barrel’s gape swallows up two
cartridges, its dislocated eyes pointed to the ground.
Where the hell have those beaters got to?
(Shouts) Spread out you daft buggers!
The Beaters
Echoes trick the air. Tin cans. Sticks. Dustbin lids.
Cheers, Squire. (tugs forelock sarcastically)
CRACK!
Behold, the confetti of death rapes the air as a
panicked bird leaves the low clouds standing.
Your kill, Sir.
The retriever retrieves. The beaters beat.
Somewhere, an egg hatches.
