Subcommittee Sings

It was a struggle to get up but the news
saying the war was elsewhere—the world making decorations—
meant a visit to the museum was due. He left his home
through the turnstile and there were all the horny sleepwalkers of the past
behind glass. He pressed the information button:
they lit up and broke through, only days later. Then there were bodies everywhere
and he couldn’t trust the news: he tied himself
to hundreds of the celebratory balloons and floated up, unsure
where he was going but the decorations must do something
he thought. That’s when he saw the outlines of the ancient civilisations and they peaked
right where the buttons were, the inverse of what one would expect,
though he couldn’t explain it: he popped the balloons
slowly, floating down, which only got him abuse in the museum
which was part of the fee, though free, so when they gave him a spear
and suggested he try the basement he didn’t hesitate, as at least there
he wouldn’t get signals from the news and the darkness
would hide the balloons—the buttons: he learned to close his eyes quick
when someone fell into one.