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