Macgyver
(Indisponível)
it starts with a call, a call from his mother. sophia says “come
quick, macgyver’s been hurt. he was just on his way home from
saving the world again, he got jumped by some kids, he went
down, now he’s dying.” so i threw on my coat an ran out the
door, sped through the night to the old hospital, where the
doctors said to wait, so i camped in the ward, watching the
clock as it haemorrhages time so slow. and i’ve lingered here so
long. the air in here so cold. the shallow breath so quiet. the
shibboleth of macguiver laid bare, flat on a table, blackened by
bruises he couldn’t explain. and there was nothing he could build
to save himself out of biros and blue-tack. they opened up his
cavities in the operating theatre, but the doctors couldn’t find
a heart, his lymph glands running motor oil. his calloused
fingers lie inert, their intricate ability punctured by the
god-shaped hole in adolescent consciousness. he couldn’t build a
bomb to mend the splinters of his broken heart. his home-made
radar couldn’t find a way to make his weapons art. macgyver
bleeds out all of his rationalism. isaac newton, your lever is
not long enough. the scottish enlightenment a sinking ship. so i
left the hospital with the bleep of life support machines a
memory.
|
|
