The instantaneous death of 222 doves

Jack Pedder

Georgina had spent an enormous amount of her life weeping in the arms of deformed old men.
It was a warm June dawn in London.
Pink cloudsurf slid sqaushshily over the atmosphere’s purple pebble beach.
The sun, a red jellybean, rolled gently up the atmosphere’s naked female back, acupuncture-needled with jumbo jet trails.
(The atmosphere was of a tone and texture that made a pebble beach and a female back equally applicable, imaginative, and well chosen metaphors).
Large-voiced doves stuffed the atmosphere with their large cooing like a lasagneman stuffs a lasagne with white sauce. (This comparison is, I will concede, pornographic and terrible, but also very necessary).
The Thames was full of Hippos.
Hippos and an otter.
Hippos, an otter, and a germ.
They were all basking friskily on the junglegym of brontosaurus skeletons uncovered by the low tide.
Pink (I say pink for practical purposes; imagine the most beautiful colour ever written about) drooled on London like a perfume hobo, lathered in cinnamon and weapons-grade strawberry flavouring, fresh from a bath of liquid toffee and 222 year old wine.
It tinged the partially visible dome of St Paul’s in an orgy of pure Beard Tongue (Beard tongue is a species of pink flower… also 2 nouns).
Metropolia beamed under a hue with the zest of a Roman bathhouse, crammed to the hilt with desperate quivering virgins. It was, Georgina supposed – on the ramshakle shingle (trolleys, old telescopes, Georgian vases) under Blackfriars bridge, watching the sun’s glow pass across its 19 underside beams –
it was, Georgina supposed, possible for a morning as vibrantly snoozy as this to soften St. Pauls, to sort of scrunch, biologise, and make floppy its pillars.
The dome, which already looked like a conservative sprout, could not feasibly repent of its magenta and re-uphold grey once the sun had risen. It ought to flood it with flimsy veins, to see the cold metallic breast swell, as if with organs, into a ginormous bud.
This possibility became more and more apparent as St Paul’s, which was a flower, flowered in a fabulous, agonisingly holy slump, releasing several (12) ballerina shaped balloon animals, all of which popped 400 feet above sea-level, releasing sleeping powder, which fell on the hippos, the otter, and the germ, sending them to sleep.
They woke up in the North sea, 12 hours later.
Georgina saw an old deformed man, his knapsack full of shingle, his ears the size of toddlers, one on his forehead, one on his chest. She struck up a conversation. The sunrise was lovely wasn’t it. I didn’t know St. Paul’s Cathedral, she said, the famous one in London, she said, was a flower. It was never stone or metal or any of the things buildings are made of but the flimsy things flowers are made of. Did you know that. A plant. St. Paul’s is a plant. She cried in the deformed old man’s arms.

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