Barry Manilow By Tom Fynes

 

I lived just outside of town; I could have saved the world. 

But who listened. I’ll tell you who listened, nobody. 

Tried on numerous occasions to warn, to advise the powers that be. 

But to no avail.

I told them what I'd seen. The future, and the coming of the Ice Rock in the sky.

The secret, I said, was the, ‘Pyramid Deflector Shields.’

Built by an Ancient race to save us. They could be used once again.

To deflect that Big Bad Blue Rock. That was hurling through the black heavens, 

filling the night sky, target sight set, direct on Earth.

The Ancients would step in again and rescue us, was my profound theory.

They would spring into action. If asked nicely for help, save mankind again. 

All they had to do was press that Egyptian Pyramid cosmic airbag buffer button.

It made sense, if they’d built them. Then, job done. The Big Blue Ice Rock would 

sail right on by.

Die Hard was our only other option. Or perhaps option two. Die even Harder.

When it hit, it would create such a bloody mess. 

Like the recent Tsunami in Japan. But bigger.

Much bigger. I was shocked by the surging Japanese Tsunami Mountain of junk. 

No clinical Hollywood movie destruction here. 

Just shit loads of garbage on the move and at high speed.

For me, an offer of a new job and an apartment deep in the Rockies, 

would be a well-timed, and an excellent career move. 

I awaited the offer.

But a need to know was needed to know.

What iTunes would I take with me, as I, one of the chosen, descended below.

The Classics. Barry Manilow was a given, Frank Sinatra, You Me at Six, Metallica, 

The Bothy Band, Ashplant, Aslan. Big choices to be made.

Who would I take with me as one of the chosen.

Not the wife of course. Maybe the kids.

It was time to start it all over again. Build up the Mega corporations. 

The stocks and shares. Bigger armies, bigger soldiers, invasions, rape, looting. 

Let’s do it all over again. 

But this time there will be no, ‘Mr Nice Guy.’ 

It will be just us and the warm barrel of the gun. 

Well, maybe a bow and arrow to start out with.

New Kings will return. New religions will flourish. 

We do seem to need these imperial mortal, immortals. 

Come back Emperor Napoleon all is forgiven. We cry out for religion. 

Any religion. We’ll start it all over again. 

With the great pagan festivals. Christmas, Easter, Summer and be very happy. 

Until some Zealot hijacks them for their very angry local God. 

The Pigs will once again walk on two legs, and they will, as night follows day. 

Start raising the young Schaffer hounds to protect the people. 

Is there no way to stop this endless bitching pig cycle.

Will we then go off world and export our jealous Gods to the stars.

Or will the Rats step up to the plate and evolve. 

While we lie buried beneath the mountains. 

Dreaming of our majestic return like Arthur Pendragon. 

Then, when we finally awake from our Arthurian slumber. 

Could we hold a civilized discussion with Mr Rat, about repossessing their homeland. 

Like an angry Old Testament Abraham, making a comeback in the Promised Land. 

Oh! Honey!!! I'm home!

How many eons will we pass with Barry Manilow, guardian of our bunker muzak, our only guilty pleasure.

 Would the Rats have evolved to play poker and drink cheap rough gut whiskey and enjoy the delights of liver disease and cancer.

And strip mining and strip clubs and X Factor competitions. 

Would they have painted great works of art, The Mona Rat perhaps. 

Write and read great books.

 The Grapes of Rat? 

And listen to their equivalent of Barry Ratso Manilow. 

Would they have bigger guns than us.

Would we care.

Would we just blast them all to kingdom come. 

Then destroy the world once again.

Because, yes, we can.

Something will jump into the evolution breach. Something always does. 

Maybe not Mr Rat.

Mr Ant then. Perhaps giant intelligent Ant colony cities will have sprung up awaiting our return. 

And what of our friends, ‘The Ancients,’ and their ingenious, ‘Pyramid Deflector Shields.’

Unasked, would they have intervened anyway. 

Would they have then paused for a nano second over the Egyptian panic button.

Take a deep breath of whatever they breathe, step back and say.

“Do you know what. Screw 'em. Bunch of jobsworths, wasters. 

Could have went to the stars and what did they do. 

Lie around listening to Barry Manilow.”

Will everybody see the vast Armada of Intergalactic ships, heading off world. 

Before we get creamed. By a Black Blue Ice Rock, the size of New York State.

And Joe public, confused by this turn of events. 

Finger pointing at the departing Armada.

“Who were they?”

And as the answers comes tumbling out of the Politicians media cupboard.

“Ancients! What! We had Ancients on the planet! Why didn’t nobody tell us?”

“What! They knew! They knew about all of this. 

All the Presidents men knew. Shit!”

“Why was it not on Fox or Sky?”

“What?”

“A need to know?”

“Of course we needed to know ya moron. Now it’s too late.”

 Then in panic mode, everybody is updating Facebook, sending emails, using face-mail. 

Kissing somebody, anybody. Speed reading, ‘War and Peace.’ 

Making love to a stranger. Or just packing up and heading for the hills. 

When I say hills, I am not talking, The Box hills of Surrey. 

We are talking the Himalaya Hills. The Black Hills of Dakota. The Rocky Mountain Hills.

Then, while the chosen sleep. And Gaia does another roulette galaxy wheel spin, of whose turn is it now to rule the earthly roost. 

Consider this, ‘Mr Future Man,’ they would not listen to me, a man who knew. 

They’d rather listen to fucking Barry Manilow.