Handsome, you’ve done your job.
The committee that commissioned you explained to the artist that a good war memorial should provoke the emotions of Pride, Sadness and Fondness - and he certainly gave them just what they ordered . He raised you up, smoothed out your face and spread your legs , making the women and boys go weak at the knees, the mothers sob and the men push out their chests and cocks. Christ but you must be tired.
I can’t even look at you without my throat starting to ache with un-cried tears.
So here’s an idea. Take a break. Read this – read it twice if you can bothered – and then screw it up, toss it aside and come down. And I beseech you, don’t do it at some magical, mythical, dream-sequence midnight ; do it in the rush hour. Do it when the place is packed. Do it when nobody can believe their eyes. Clamber down when whistles are blowing and the hard-working dead-hearts are swarming off their trains, desperate for home and a drink or two ; leave them screaming and slack-jawed and shitting in your wake, uselessly clicking shots on their phones as you trail wet bronze across Platform One, slouching monstrously towards the tube to dismay them down there too. Let people gibber that the dead are roaming , that they’re looking for someone to shaft. Let word spread of three new sensations; Horror, Fear and Shame.
Think that might achieve something ?
You never know.
Sleep well.
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