Airport security in 2041

hedge

A frisker-bush hedge

(Listen to the poem here)

 

The bottle collectors,
the metal detectors,
the boarding pass checks,
the ID inspection.

Past the scanners, the guards,
through the frisker-bush hedges
The trackers, the scopers,
the seven-armed gropers.

Then the dumbstunner pistols
which
make
all your
electronics
electroffics
for the duration of your flight.

The tattoo inferencer,
the Rorschach blot sequencer.
The flocks of pecker pigeons,
and the crazed sniffer-dog packs

which howl at the scent of imaginary moons.
Then the accent locator,
the who-are-you-reelies,
the get-down-and-kneelies,

the just-calm-down-misters,
the testicle twisters.
The yardsticks, the metrics,
the inchers, the ouchers,

The enhanced question-session
when you’re spun centrifugal,
plus the 9-Richter quaker
and the upside-down shaker.

Then the emoji-faced probot
whose five eyes are bloodshot,
but whose smiley gets brighter
the deeper it probes you.

Last, the 50 ml syringe
which puts you to sleep,
(when you checked in you chose from six classes of dream).
Then you’re into
your casket,
the hopper,
the loader,
and your slot in the bunk.

And click, whirr …

Ding …

Ding …

Ding …

Ding …

Ding-ding

(here’s the lock)

CLUNK!

 

Phillip Hill 2017

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