Not to quote Jurassic Park, but -

My dear fellow jugglers 

in the Cirque du Suburbia,
you may think your home impervious
to encroaching adult themes.
But “Nature always finds a way”
and they’re going to learn it all some day
but it’s probably better in some ways than by some other means.

You’ll all be aware of the endless oughts
that contort and constrict
instinctive care.
Single modern motherhood is
a carousel
tersely tethered with knots.
Will nots and spill nots
and hope nots and choke nots
and try nots and cry nots
and eat nots and teach nots.
The most strangulatory
of these tangles is
expose not
meaning: Protect your child from the darkness of this world
and teach them the strength of enlightenment.

The entitlement of access to the hive mind
-by necessity a skill they must learn,
‘cause coding is the future –
shoots my determined obsolescence right in the maternals.
So to detract from external influence
I knew what to do.

We’d get
a pet.

Landlord clause: no fur or paws
no electricity eating heated enclosures,
no live food, no rodents,
no hooves, smooth or cloven.
From amidst this messy mesh
a loophole
I sagely extracted.
No one had said anything
about marine arachnids.

Fishtank purchased, live plants in
filter on and the process begins.
Background danios Spotty and Stripey
soar and chase and are occasionally fighty
but mostly work as extras in the theatre of the tank.
We even had a red-shirt! For his sacrifice we thank him.
In true tradition we set the stage; when he died the first act was over.
Two long months we’d had to wait for the alga bloom to cover
enough of the surfaces to act as a rider
for our new stars: The undersea spiders!
Or shrimp. As they’re also called
or as some people say, “You mean PET PRAWNS?!”

Yes.
is the answer.

Now. After about a month a strange thing appeared,
at first no bigger than a poppy seed
then as it grew I came to realize
there was more than one stowaway snail inside.
Gio was delighted, I was concerned
about intercrustacean diplomatic relations
but they co-existed peacefully and the purpose was perfectly served.

Until the day these mucilaginous interlopers, now numbering four or five
decided to stage a three-day-three-way-sex-show. Live.
Right at the front of the tank they were!
“Mummy, what are they doing?” “Errrrrrr..
I think they’re making babies, Gio.”
“But there’s three of them!” “Yes, I know…
oh I can’t explain it, they’re snails, I’m not sure-
hey, who’s that in the castle with his face out the door?
Is it Blackfish? Has he made friends with the shrimp?
He’s the first fish to spend time in there I think.”

This happy distracting friendship warmed both of our hearts
and we smiled as Blackfish spent more time in the dark
and the shrimp brought him food and he slowly grew fatter
but everything was lovely and nothing else mattered.
The snails population in the background grew and grew.
We lost count when they got past 22.

One morning I was woken by Gio screaming “Mummy!
The shrimp have got Blackfish and they’re opeing his tummy!”
I raced in and slack-jaw gawped. The violence was alarming.
But more than this; the realization that shrimp understand farming.
Two Medium Shrimp held Corpsefish still, while Big Shrimp did the slashing
and then they gathered round and gorged themselves. Gio, big-eyed watched the action.

More generations of snails came. Then more and more and more
until the monopod population was a problem we couldn’t ignore.
We had to get rid of all of them. We couldn’t leave even an egg.
They eaten us out of live plants. We’d had to get fake ones instead!
It took the final solution. We gave the tank a deep clean.
And boiled the snails in the gravel. And murdered their babies with steam.

Then rebuilt the tank from the ground up and so far, it seems to go well.
It’s more like an eight-year-old’s fish tank and less like the circles of hell.

I think it’s fair to say, in this case
my attempts at parenting were a little displaced
by “Nature, red in tooth and claw”
or, transparent in the case of the shrimp’s grinding maw.

I tried to protect my son from his curiosity and an internet search engine,
but accidently introduced him to orgies, murder, evisceration
and ethnic cleansing.

Camping

In this canvas-shanty-holiday town,

you'll hear strange sounds when the sun goes down

and played out families are tucked up tight

in polyester slug-suits in the still of the night.

At half past three

you need to pee

in insomnia regretting that last coffee.

Your tent mate is oblivious;

they've been snoring for two hours

while you slithered up and down the slope

with great rustling sounds.

The decision made, you try to rise

and sit up with a plan.

But your elbow's caught inside your zip

and it pulls you down again.

The zip is caught! You can't get out!

Your bladder twitches a threat.

You cursing, muttering free your legs

which immediately don goose flesh.

Pull on shoes, wrong foot, wrong way

laces tied as long as they'll stay

and with screwed up face and finger tip

try to open the front door zip.

The slower you go, the louder it is.

You think “Fuck it!” and try to go quick;

The zip is caught! You can't get out!

The whole tent gives a wobble

and you burst into the porch of sorts

in a breathless, blundering bundle.

Picking past the other homes

newly acute awareness

of whispered squabbles, saucy moans

and farts confidently careless.

As eyes adjust you realise the toilets are worryingly distant

and like Lara Croft with lasers you must cross the guy rope alarm system.

You wheel and tiptoe, duck and hop

knowing you'll pee yourself if you stop.

Nearly there but then your heel catches and pulls out a peg.

You freeze and hear blamey whispers coming from inside that tent.

“That' the fifth time! I said not to camp here!”

“Fine, you can come on your own next year!”

Run away! Preserve yourself and reach the portaloos.

They'll be equally grubby, no matter which one you choose

and finding one with toilet paper's a great thing to behold.

You lock the door and sit but the toilet seat is cold.

The relief is blessed beautiful. You dress again with leisure.

And water free hand cleaner is a modern camping pleasure.

Confident, collected now you begin the return trip

and trip's the operative word as over the same peg you slip.

Twang! With owl wide eyes you scurry,

ducking, wheeling, tiptoeing in hurry.

The saucy moans you heard before

have progressed to throaty groans of “more”

and their unfortunate head torch shadow display

is giving delight to some, but others dismay.

You pass by and observe all this

but after five minutes, something's amiss.

Where did we put the tent again?

I'm sure it was here. I remember when

we pitched up. That seagull flag,

the leilandii trees, that plastic bag.

Oh look. It's starting to rain.

Didn't bring a coat of course, the noise it would have made

would have been a rustle too far.

Oh God, looks like I've walked right past

it. It's all the way back there.

Stumble, trip, grab the zip.

Slippy fingered wrestle with it.

The zip is caught! You can't get in!

Over in the next tent a stirring begins.

You've woken their kids and they've started to fight

An angry bellow rings out through the night

followed by a man's voice, shrilly;

“I've told you before not not stand on my willy!”

Back in your bag, the rain sounds heavier

but only liquid sunshine falls on the British Riviera.

And fresh air sleep is fuller

you wake feeling so refreshed

and sleeping under canvas for sciatica is best.

So when the sun comes up we'll cook sausages and bacon

And smile like we heard nothing of the other campsite's patrons.

Stardom

Stella lived her life in a most dramatic vein.
One crisis was replaced by another
each with limited arc and time-frame.
Each morning montage defined the day;
a theme song sung in the shower.
Costumes thrown on any old way
had miraculously stylish power.
Her morning walk to work was seasoned with cheerful greetings -
miniature talk well rehearsed,
ceremonial coffees and sweet things.
All was an adventure.
Stella occupied the Right Place at the Right Time.

But that time became a trial
and Stella's smile
began to slip.
She was tired.
One night she took the option
of having an
Early Night.
She just... went to bed.
Head under covers.
Smothered.
Swaddled.
She modelled
her behaviour on a bear she'd once seen on a documentary
and slept for months.

Once sated,
on waking
she walked naked to bathe.
Eyes closed
in steaming flow
she cleared her throat to sing and
----------------------
nothing.
In the absence of theme
she brushed her teeth
and roughly dried her skin.
Throwing on any old clothes, towelling off her hair.
You couldn't call it an outfit
and even "bird's nest" wasn't fair.
Leaving for work, a memory lapse.
Her keys stayed in their bowl.
As the door clicked shut behind her,
she shivered in the cold.
No smiles wore the merchants
as she purchased her refreshments.
Perfunctory politeness,
instant coffee, cold toast
and lack of breath-mints.

Ahead of her, along the street
she noticed a commotion
of cameramen and camouflage
and folk of filming notions.
As they scurried to their points of view
a figure strolled with confident shoes,
a figure well known to Stella.
She knew that hair cut, she knew that sway
of the hips, she knew the way
the chin was lifted in a smile, she knew
the length of those legs,
the shape of the head, she knew
her.

It was... her.

Did she have a twin?
Stranger things
have occurred.
Stella turned and saw this doppelganger
greet Joanna.
A long time colleague and friend.
She watched them bend
in the choreographed art of hello
showing their best sides to the man
who'd tried to hide behind the post box.

Stella tripped towards them,
head curious-terrier tipped to the side.

Now about 25 feet away
she heard a crackle-voice say
"Stop her!"
Stella fell to the left,
a great force had hit her from the right
throwing her to the ground.
Hot salty fingers crammed against mouth
hairy knuckles inches from two pound coin sized eyes
and spittle-flecked "Shhhhh!" spilled forth
in halitoxic sigh.
Crackle again:
"Get her away. You'll have to tell her
she's been replaced
she got too dull. We've hired another Stella".

"You heard the man, get out of here, you're ruining the shot"

"But," Stella whispered, "this is all I've got.
You can't just take my life from me.
What do you mean 'replaced'?
Have you given that girl surgery?
She's got my fucking face!"

"Look, love, you need a new job, they've given you the boot.
The viewers demand to see action,
new Stella's 'enjoying her youth', if you know what I mean".

He leered and patronised all at once
"You know, if you're stuck I know a bunch
of guys that make films with girls like you;
rejects, has-beens, once-had-it-alls.
They'd pay you well, it'd be something to do,
your back's really against the wall".

A wave of panic burst through her chest
as she kneed him in the bollocks and took her chance to wrest
herself free from his weight
and scrambled away
sobbing.

*********

Blanche works in a cafe.
She wear a practiced smile.
She hands out cappuccinos
and is a bit fifties in style.
Brittle blonde and boring,
but for the moments in her day
when she relives her past life
and the cameras point her way.
As a bit-part she is comfortable,
it's a steady job at least.
But her eyes expose the brief time
she tried to get by on the streets.

_________________________________________________________________________

This poem was debuted yesterday at the Deep South Music Festival, where I was performing alongside the magnificent poets, Bill Strutt, Martin Lynch and Jennifer Davies (winner of the 2015 Manx LitFest poetry slam). It was a brilliant event, despite the weather being typical of a Manx summer (rain/sun/rain/sun/rain/sun/WIND).  Lovely atmosphere, great music, much silliness and aches this morning. Love the Summer season here on this island, there is always something going on... Roll on Dark Horse.

Love to all of you.
Xxxx

The Ballad of Bob and Mary

***TO BE READ IN A BROAD NORTHERN ENGLISH ACCENT***

Bob and Mary live in a semi.

They spend most every evening watching repeats on the telly.

Burying their heads in digital sand.

Bob sups his beer, thinks ‘Aint life grand’.

He belches, reveling in its echo, tone and strength

then half-heartedly apologises, to save the argument.

Mary is repulsed but merely gives a tut.

It’s not she doesn’t care, quite the opposite but

after all these years of chastising and nagging

her enthusiasm for home improvement is flagging.

Once Mary would have been described a dolly bird.

Now she is just bird-like with a faintly tinted perm.

She’s been smoking menthol superkings sine she turned 21.

They still make her feel sophisticated, though she won’t admit that to anyone.

It hasn’t been a bad life and she’s not one to complain,

but she thinks she’d do it differently if she had her time again.

She liked to have been an air hostess and travelled all over the world

or worked on one of them cruise ships, or been one of Pan’s People’s girls.

Just something a little more glamorous and less like egg and chips.

She gives poor Bob a sideways look and purses coral stained lips.

They’re a staple in their local. Bob drinks stout.

Mary likes a babycham and brandy when she’s out.

Bob’s not fond of Mary’s friends. He hates their gossiping ways.

Mary whispers too softly. He misses half the things she says.

At half past ten, habitually they totter up the road.

Arm in arm, step in step, it’s not a long trip home.

“Bob” says Mary, “do you ever wonder if there’s more than this?”

“Mary” Bob says, “I dearly love you, but you’re pissed.

When you’ve had more than three you know you get all philosophical-like

I’ve told you before about your limits, it’s too much at my time of life.”

He straightened his cap and Mary just sighed

then she looked up and saw how soft were his eyes.

“I know love” she said “and you’ve given me plenty

but sometimes I feel all used up and empty”.

“Oh, duck! We’ve had such good times, remember when we were young?

All those trips to the seaside, those summers full of sun?

Annual foreign holidays to the Costa this and that,

strolling, licking ice cream in a kiss me quick hat.

It’s only right you’re tired when you’ve lived as much as us.

That’s why they give us pensioners free rides on the bus”.

She squeezed his hand and sadly smiled.

They walked in silence a little while.

Then, as they reached their little front gate

Bob’s caught Mary’s arm and said “Wait.”

“What?” said Mary startled, spun into Bob’s waiting palms

“While there’s moonlight, we’ve no music but we’ve love and romance,

haven’t we darling?”

Mary’s heart flew like a flock of starlings.

As she lifted her arms Mary was glad

that night she’d remembered to wear her Tena pad.

She murmured “Let’s dance” and Bob stepped a tango

then screwed up his face and yelled “Ee! Me lumbago!”

Mary cried “Bob! You poor old thing!

Let me give you a hand. Do you want me to ring

for the doctor?” “No, no,” he said

“the best medicine for me will be us in bed”.

“Oh, give over” she playfully teased

“between your back and my dodgy knees

we’ll be lucky to make it up the stairs.

Thank god the hot water bottles are already prepared.”

She helped Bob to bed and fetched him his pills.

Unplugged the cords to save on the bills.

Locked all the doors and turned off the lights.

Got into bed and they kissed goodnight.

In well practiced harmony they both removed their teeth

put them into one glass and pushed it out of reach.

They snuggled into decades long impressions of their love

on a mattress worn equally below as above.

As Mary’s dreams encroached she saw flashes of her life

From after and before she became a mam and wife.

A joyful tear slid down her nose

and she reached her cold feet towards Bob’s warm toes.

“Bob, why don’t we take the grandkids out?

Down to the pier and tell them all the stories about

when you and me was courting

and the lido? and your car?

And that bar that you fought in?

Let’s see how they are.”

Bob just grunted but Mary didn’t mind.

She knew her face was laughter-lined.

For it hadn’t been a bad life, and she’s not one to complain

and she wouldn’t really do it differently

if she had her time again. 

Perdita

As I woke the other day

the sky broke. Big, grey

splotches on concrete.

Each one a cocktail thrown by an ex-lover in defeat.

Dressing, dreading

resigned to a day of

unabashed antagonists,

washing, waking

this disturbing state

insistently persists.

I attempted to give the half squint that hair leaving the house demands

but could barely see the mirror for Kirby grips and hair-bands.

They had spilt off the shelf and onto the floor;

some in the bin, some in the drawer

this atoll of accessories, point of origin undisclosed

 was girt by the lagoon of lost socks and outgrown favourite clothes.

Confused, I clamour for caffeine.

Stumbling through the hallway,

bare soles bruising on abandoned ephemera

as pen lids, lip balm and bouncy balls roll away

care-slow moving like a long lost Lepidoptera.

Steaming kettle further blurring sleep clouded

eyes I turn and reach wrist deep into a tower

of teaspoons.

Withdraw.

To hullabaloo calamitous, I stir.

I slurp.

I stare,

trying to work out where I am.

Such stifling clutter!

It looks like a nutter

lives here, hoarding

all things

carelessly tossed aside.

This realization drove an elbow into my gut.

I checked the doors and windows.

Sealed shut.

Jellied legs delivered me to my cobalt velvet chair,

I sipped my tea most somberly, reflecting on my despair.

I finished, then straight-backed rinsed the cup,

head up high, jaw a-jut

then set about with mop and duster

until all of the items regained their lustre.

Gave each a home, it’s proper place,

put away pairs of briefs by the case

and learned to live through windows.

On tiptoes from upstairs

I can see a sliver of ocean.

I’ve chosen to make the best of it.

It’s orderly now. And quiet.

Some people would kill for this solitude.

I stoically abide it.

As for all the teaspoons, I’ve made myself a crown.

I accept I’m lost, for this is where I’m found

Home and Hospital for the Incurables

Gothic institution, high on island hill.

Oceans of ink. A sky entirely of quill.

The Warden’s keys jangle alarmingly in the lock.

She punches in, signalling day’s beginning on the clock.

One by one along the stacks

the strip lights buzz and yawn.

Their dust dilated haloes are vesperturnally forlorn.

Muffled footsteps on threadbare shuffle

and distantly a hushed kerfuffle

whispers through still air.

The Warden sighs and rolls her eyes

at the metronomic morning mantra

as the echoed mouthfuls materialize:

“You can’t make me get up if I don’t wanna!”

This is Gulchik. Every day

she wishes that the night would stay.

She likes to moonbathe. It helps to soothe

her erratic solar-stifled moods.

The Warden pays her little mind

but checks the email, flips the sign

on office door from “out” to “in”.

Another day at work, for her sins.

A shadow flicks across the door

trailing a wake of intense intention.

Lamps flick on. Decisions are made.

Coffee brews.

Its olfactory serenade draws others to the room.

They are gathered in a foyer of a library of sorts.

A refectory of writings and of reactionary last resorts.

The people here aren’t free to leave

but purgatorially persist.

Endlessly refining their flaws

as three dimensional as a Moebius Strip.

The self-appointed Head Librarian is a very jovial chap.

He wears a suit of sepia wool and a shiny brass-badged cap.

Perpetual cup of half-drunk tea

in hand. You’ll find him at his desk.

Any scrap of thing you want to know

he’ll give upon request.

He has it all neatly filed away,

it’s hidden in the stacks.

Taped up dusty cardboard boxes

labeled “Synonyms”, “Sources”, “Syntax”.

BUT.

He really

loves

charades.

The Simpleton Sphinx has found a way

to turn easy admin into frustrating play.

He will answer all you care to ask

in cryptic clues an interpretive dance.

Gulchik tries to help the situation along

offering answers so painfully, blatantly wrong

that Warden orders her to read

and get the education so clearly needs.

As she strops away we catch a glint

deep in the murk. If you squint

you might just see a figure slim,

locally known as Tin-Foil-Tim.

This is a name the others gave to him.

He will not reveal his own for fear

of hidden cameras, tracking devices conspi-

racies and the mere

acknowledgement of his presence

scrambles him like a startled pheasant.

Thompson or Thompson,

(It’s not clear which)

twinkles his eyes

and gives his moustache a twitch.

“Only 3% of pheasants live to be age 3”.

The bowler-hatted figure grins charmingly, broadly.

His lapel-pin draws the gaze

in pompous-fonted letters the phrase

‘Keeper of Ephemeral Wisdom’ is engraved.

Bouncing his cane he turns with flair.

And all returns to the still, silent air.

A distant light fades into view.

A pale coral comforting hue.

The kitchen with its Aga and its well worn table top

is host to existential debates that never really stop.

The sisters here go on and on about the nature of truth.

One’s called Anna-Nostalgia and the other is Memory-Ruth.

Steaming tea-pot, pink wafers biscuits, cross-stitch and knitting.

The only thing they agree on is which chair the other should sit in.

This little room is haunted by the wraith of poor Miana.

She hisses now from shadowed corners.

She was drowned in raucous laughter.

While this cosy little picture may well warm your oysters

there are secrets to be discovered in the dark beyond the cloisters.

This monochrome stone is Daemenzia’s domain.

Her most terrifying weapon her glaring disdain.

All angles and German modernist lighting

she is used as a guard specifically to frighten

others to stay out and one to stay in

the padded devotional cell that she’s in.

Through the door-grill she may be glimpsed.

The disheveled, wide-eyed Mistress of Mince.

Hunched over paper, desperately scratching.

Her dress is so well worn its mostly just patching.

Bare foot and grubby she tremors with breath

for if she ever stops writing it would be sudden death.

The Warden sees the Mistress but they rarely interact.

How can a rock hope to understand the notion of the abstract?

For Warden knows what others don’t, by virtue of being the carer.

The Mistress’s powers are transcendental. What Warden discovered had scared her.

All the books in the library were hand written not typed

in identical scrawly pea-green swirls on identical pages striped.

New volumes are forthcoming at an ever steady rate

but the oldest book in the library is sealed inside a safe.

For it describes in detail the ink washed island hill

and how the Mistress had created it through the force of pen and will.

The sudden death she fears isn’t her earthly own

but everyone that’s placed in the Hospital and Home.

For although they cannot leave and are prisoners of her construct

she has grown accustomed to their distracting disorderly conduct.

And so she goes on writing

above ink sea on island hill.

In a gothic institution

where the sky is made of quill.

Wither Strength

These memory-threads, they've seen it all.

With sheer relief I watch them fall.

These tresses teased, consuming time

Created an image that was not mine.

Felt myself wither with the plait of each curl

Replaced with conservatories, patios,pearls.

Lachrymose points of fossilized light

Now passive aggressive and weak in a fight.

Almost as if my spirit was there,

Split at the ends and bleached and threadbare.

Menfolk seem saddened, “I preferred it before”

-          Historically, long and loose signified whore.

We have now the Vogue bob, the post-divorce crop

Meaning strong and professional. It’s a visual full stop.

Which brings me to Samson. I read with fresh eyes

The rewritten truth behind legendary lies.

It could never be seen that Delilah had strength

Or that it diminished as her hair grew in length.

She is painted as harlot, as betrayer, as thief

For disabling a terrorist who fought with mules teeth.

He destroyed a temple, killed thousands of men

But Delilah’s the villain? Pah! Think again.

His weakness for women she clearly exploited,

Earned his trust, passed her time and feigned her enjoyment

Over time introducing new tastes to his diet,

Soya, mint, coriander; she urged him, “Just try it.”

These anaphrodisiacs soon did the trick

And he gaped in dismay at his treacherous dick

As limply it hung there, refusing to play.

Delilah masked joy, knew the wrong words to say;

“What’s wrong with you Sammy? Are you not a man?

I've seen palm dates bigger. You’re reputation’s a sham”

And cruelly she laughed to drive the cut deeper

And insert in his subconscious brain a long sleeper.

Watching him crumble as once more she spoke:

“Your technique is shoddy and your cum face a joke”.

Her mission completed, her own head threads shorn,

Disguised as a man she escaped with the dawn.

To protect his secret and bury his shame

He shaved his own head and passed her the blame.

As excuses for impotence (don’t come) but go

This one is dramatic; distracting; for show.

And sad it is too, that his gore-fest career

Was ended through self-induced rumour mill fear

And not, as you thought, by his shiny bald pate.

Perhaps now a few more of you can relate

To a parable apropos basing your ego

On something as fragile as hair or libido.

And now you should know what’s important instead

Is the beauty and joy that’s found inside your head.

The Mermaid and The Sloth

Come and meet some friends of mine,
we'll go to where they stay
with toasting glasses held aloft
and witty repartee.
I'm sure we'll have a lovely time -
they're very welcoming.
They are the Mermaid and the Sloth
to them ourselves we'll bring.
Please don't mind their way with words.
Their oft-referenced archaic verse
is harmless at the very worst.
With intelligence they're cursed.
The Mermaid and the Sloth.

Dispensary Blues

I am sick of helping the sick
And getting nothing in return.
No sick pay, no thanks.
Just above minimum wage I earn.
I am sick of hearing how things will improve
As another friend's hours get cut or removed.
I am sick of the blame and the lawsuits I risk
Because of mis-prescribed medicines that do not exist.
The lack of support and unbearable pressure
When every day things just get worse and not better.
Vocations unvalued and talents deterred
instead of encouraged. Profits preferred.
Insomnia's nightmares curse all those that care.
Long term dispensers in this firm are rare.

The Mystery of the Moon

One crystal-aired and clear-skied day
I wandered pondering away,
To discover if the tales were true;
Is lunar rock just cheese of blue?
I asked the solemn cows so wise, but all they said was "Moo".

I had heard told the deep blue sea

Could answer any mystery,

So went and stood on windswept shore;

Begged and pleaded, screamed and swore.

The waves to calm me murmured "Shhhh", but gave no answer more.

I went to university,
The learn-ed folk and library,
But they were in a picket line
With angry looks and waving signs.
It seemed they had their own questions and wouldn't answer mine.

I scaled the Himalayas,

(The grass, the rocks and icy layers)

To see if I could see from there

If it were stilton or gruyere.

Altitude sickness got me first- I need much thicker air.

Atlas mountains on camel road,
With Bedouin tribes and desert code.
I saw the moon more clearly then
Than I ever will again.
I saw how silly I had been and found a peace-like zen.

It was obvious to me

The moon's not rock or cheese of green!

It's each unanswered mystery;

The "what' if"s, "what now"s and "what's to bes";

The gotten undreamed and the great-never-had:

That's why She glows and why She's sad.

Pig Ignorant

Once upon a Summertime there lived a golden prince

In a palace built from beans that grew from kitchen sinks.

He went outside when midday came and in the midday sun,

For he knew nothing of the tales of dogs nor Englishmen.

He lived to sip his smoke divine upon a throne of stars

And fed his harem apple wine but kept their souls in jars.

This winsome whimsical young Prince ruled with a fist of floss,

With his subjects it was rare if he was ever cross.

And while this prince felt so well loved, he had a fatal flaw;

His face and form were perfect but he was a perfect bore

And all across his kingdom as far the eye could see

Existed none honest or curt with whom he could take tea.

For the prince preferred such topics as his hair, his skin, his bones

And ignored the joys that could be found in ancient dusty tomes.

Not for him were stories, myths or poetry,

Nor were facts, heroic deeds or relativity.

He turned away the callers who tried to feed his mind

But kept the ones obsequious and two faced and unkind.

He never seemed to realise that all his friends were foes

But trusted them implicitly – naivety I suppose.

The ignorant prince was much abused by those reputed wise,

Invisible their evil deeds, before his open eyes.

And then one night The Lady came, (as she is wont to do,

She is never on the guest list of the most discourteous fools),

Arriving lone entombed in night

She was sodden, foreign sight

She carried a world in a ring on her hand, enigma in her eyes

Nary a smile nor giggle nor grin, just th’illegible lines of the wise.

When the courtiers brought her in they all seemed quite unwell,

Mesmerised and stupefied they were under some kind of a spell.

The Prince was most surprised at this; his footmen knew the rules;

His other guests had written in, to say they liked his shoes.

“This isn’t fair, this isn’t right, you can’t just waltz in here,

And interrupt the grave debate of ‘Which is my better ear?’”

The Lady did not answer him but gazed from ‘neath her hood,

She radiated something that was neither bad nor good,

The first plumes of her power had tickled her nose; the Prince tried a different tack

“We will welcome you madam, we’ve plenty to share. Is there something you need that you lack?”

The Lady just stood there, rain dripped from her wrists

As in smouldering silence she dared to persist.

The Prince was intrigued now, his charm on high beam,

This Lady was like no one else that he’d seen.

He clapped his hands, “Assist our guest! I will not have it said

The someone in my house was cold and wet and underfed!”

The courtiers stepped forth as one to help remove her cloak

But as she drew it from her face out billowed turquoise smoke.

She raised her hands entrancing all, “Enough of gentile games!

I’ve come here on a mission. I have far nobler aims!”

The Prince submitted to her power

(It was by far his humblest hour)

The courtiers couldn’t help but cower

The ladies were inspired.

The Lady’s eyes in violet glowed

And all at once Prince was bestowed

With information overload;

Too much at once acquired

Light beamed from the Prince’s agape skyward mouth,

Lightning bolts shot from his ears

As all in one moment he experienced facts

And the wisdom one gains over years.

It filled him with horror, with hope and with fright

It made his a cynic, a poet, a knight.

The Lady was shining, had narrowed her eyes

Had forgotten all of her flimsy disguise

The mutually breathless admirers spectated, no one was stopping for wine.

They knew what they witnessed would carry them years, on this they could endlessly dine.

The lightning bolts flickered and faded to rain

The Prince closed his mouth, his composure regained

And once more the Lady controlled his attention

Eyeing him sagely, He was under inspection.

Said she;

“Weary Prince I bestow thee

With a somewhat questionable gift

I do hope it will find pleasure from thee,

But if not, let it cause not a rift

For this is an offer, you might not accept

And all I have given you yet is the concept.

The problem you see, is it’s like a tattoo,

And therefore once done is the devil to undo.

I know that for some this would just tantalise

I’d be run over by them in their rush to subscribe

But for you, feckless prince, it may be the other

You’d amble off home, say, ‘It’s too much like bother”

And what if you changed your mind half way through?

What if you realised it’s just not for you?

This taster you’ve had will fade when you sleep

But if you want more you will have it for keeps”

The courtiers exchanged some looks, most unprofessionally,

They realised their lives could swerve away from milk and honey.

The vizier removed his hat and squeegeed off his head.

The silken cloche was soaked in sweat, his eyes were filled with dread

The ladies’ fans were all aflutter – was this the longed-for day?

To stop feigning stupidity and the end of all things fey?

Prince raised one hand in punctuation

“Dear Lady you fill me with much consternation

You have given me the fruity brambly bit,

But before I reached cedar you forced me to spit

And now you inform me of your heavy game

A choice between different or more of the same,

Between fear and vanity, humility and bliss,

Creed and hedonism and so forth like this.

I require contemplation, a pool to reflect

Without others’ input to urge or reject

And so we will gather here one hour hence

And I shall dismount from this perilous fence.”

He nodded quite stiffly and smiled with a grim

Little glint in his eye and a granite hard chin.

No more just the narcissist, so fauxly coy

No more just the whimsical “why not?” boy.

This was now a man with courage, strength and gravity

But heavy shoulders burdened with responsibility.

The next 60 minutes performed, as they must

With Time’s cruellest trick and they stretched into dust.

The chairs in the hall disarrayed to a skelter

As the guests hurried off to the smoking shelter.

The Lady said nothing but sat on the floor

Surrounded by trifle, potatoes and more:

Platters of sweetmeats and slices of tongue

Some with delicate perfume and some with true pong.

All went untouched as the Lady just waited

For she had a hunger that could not be sated

By titbits or tasters or flavours galore.

Her eyes were now glowing the purest azure

She shuddered and shimmered, then froze statuesque.

The Vizier fancied himself basilisk

Then slumped rather glumly to consider his fate

And whether it was wise for him to await

The Prince’s decision. If Princey awoke

To the fact that His leadership was a joke

The first thing He’d say would be “Off with your head!”

Quite right after all of the lies He’d been fed.

With this echo in mind the Vizier resolved

To empty the treasure pod of all of its gold

Before the Princely announcement was made.

That way his streaky old bacon he’d save.

He slithered away inside a breath

A mucilaginous sweat trail was all that he left.

Oblivious he to Her observation,

She would find time to reward this shrewd auto-salvation.

With five minutes left the crowd reassembled,

Refilled their glasses, excitedly trembled

Their singular focus was a scarlet curtain

Behind which their future was being made certain.

The courtiers, the ladies, the laymen all gasped

As their Prince re-emerged seeming breathing his last

His golden hair ashen, his skin was the same

He huffled and shunched his once elegant frame

And finding his throne gripped its arms for support

A little bit more than for his age he ought.

Called the Lady most firmly, “Well then, we’re all waiting.

What did you learn from your deep cogitating?

Have you made a decision? If not flip a coin,

I have other appointments and gifts to deploy.”

The Prince stroked the space where his beard should be

And let loose a sigh to the power of three.

“Officious visitor, what have you done?

You have made me aware of my own bumbledom.

Now self-aware sociopath, unfulfilled hero

Without a believable stroke of the ego.

And my court! Such sycophants! Self serving subjects!

Not one word of truth or kindness or respect.

How did this happen? And yet, this I know.

Apolaustic life. Avoidance of woe.

Omphaloskepsis and self aggrandising

Were pastimes delightful and quite hypnotising.

My blinkers of nescience now ripped from my face

And the bright lights of truth burn my eyes in their place.

Do none of you care what the future will be?

Or do you delight in epicaricacy?

Flippertigibbets advice I have heeded

But responsible leadership was what was needed.

This gift of enlightenment is wrongly named

For it burdens my soul and my conscience with shame.

A mockery of this land’s honour and grace

Kakistocracy with it my deeds did replace.

How can I ever recover from this?

Will I ever again experience bliss?

Ever consumed by improvement’s endeavour,

So many poisonous drip-feeds to sever.”

The Lady now tutted and tossed back her hair:

Pretty interruption with much practised flair:

“Come come, now! Indulgence of speeches aside

Have you chosen knowledge or the boetian side?”

“I was coming to that, will you please have some patience?

I need to explain my hour long machinations.

Now where was I? Oh yes. It’s coming back now.

The question of what I would give up and how.

To know what I was and the work it will take

To restore some dignity, corruption to break

Is most overwhelming and a life long campaign.

From parties and pleasure I’d have to refrain.

Get my hands dirty, permit age’s wrinkles

To sully this face. Tired eyes do not twinkle.

I would have to confront and debate and condemn

Set an example, be a man amongst men.

I would lose all my gusto and vivacity

With no time for laughing or cakes and cream tea.

I wouldn’t have people to tell me I’m gorgeous

Or be woken by the “We Love You” chorus.

No hours ruminating on trousers or shoes

At board games I might even once or twice lose.

And replacing these joys, what‘s the exchange?

Effortful living and stress induced mange.

I would miss all the costumes and much of the mirth

I ask you; is knowledge truly of this worth?”

“Answering me is your deep-set conceit

You‘re an unchanged poltroon, Princey my sweet.”

Her eyes were glittering, but the Prince took no notice,

So absorbed was he in atrabilious morosis.

“My answer is this: take it all away.

Nay. I say. Nay - I say. Once again, nay!

I can’t face dealing with each cockalorum

Or policy debates or learning decorum.

I don’t want to know about poverty or pain,

I would prefer each day of my life was the same;

A sweet carousel of earthly pleasures,

Time consumed with chores of leisure.

I fail my people for my people failed me.

If this is so bad, install democracy!

Puppet Prince I was and choose to always be.

This narcissistic life is warm. Wisdom is lonely.

I hope you understand, my dears. I hope you do not mind.

I just want to forget all this and return to being blind.

Lady, your instructions included nepenthe sleep.

This is my one salvation and so, to it I weep.”

He turned away, eyes to the floor

The Lady grinned most undemure

She reached her feet, he reached the door

No subject said one word.

Crackling light from fingertips,

Vowelless sound from bloodless lips,

The Prince was lifted from the hips

Etiquette seemed absurd.

A cloud of violet shimmering lights

Surrounded the gyrating Prince in the heights

The Lady seemed larger and slightly demonic

The ladies had run out of gin for their tonic.

This bringer of wisdom cackled and turned

Each one of the laymen her eyes rightly burned.

Her voice had changed from reasonable to ringing with disdain

“Now face what you have made, you fools, and what you must maintain.

For reign he must and in the manner that you all have chosen,

In a form befitting character this choice has outright proven

And now you shall receive the present that you all deserve:

This is my gift to your kingdom, perfidious herd.”

The sleeping prince amongst the clouds let out a little sigh

As ghostly fingers played on him and measured up his size

His outline seemed to stretch and twist, his tresses all fell out

His clothes dissolved, his achingly beautiful face became a snout

His arms foreshortened, legs the same and fingers now hooves cloven.

The court were certain that for a Prince this form was unbehoven.

Then with a little popping sound denoting the final detail

His new figure was completed with a tufted curly tail.

Like Rodda’s swine force 10 he soared - a most majestic sight.

Missing only earthbound string he could be a Flyodian kite.

Smiling now, his eyes awake he drifted slowly floorward.

And landing with a little grunt his first steps seemed quite awkward.

After two or three missteps he seemed to find his trotters

And spontaneous applause spilled from the half closed kitchen shutters.

The Lady took a half step back to assess her handiwork

It seemed to be acceptable - she wore a little smirk.

“He will not know how things have changed, or of the choice he made.

He still thinks he is human. You will uphold this sweet charade.

When you had a choice you chose the path unscrupulous

To set a good example this imbalance I redress.

The country now will worship him, this Prince in Piggyform

And he will live 100 years. Your duty is foresworn.

All this world will know of you and all of you they’ll mock.

With all the disrespect you’ve shown this shouldn’t be a shock.

My mission done, I’m leaving you to deal with your new lives.

Killing me will do no good, so put away your knives.

Oh yes, there was one more little thing…”

She opened her mouth as if to sing

But instead loudly vomited a purple thing.

It was a slimy toad.

She laid it on the Prince’s back

The courtiers spied its tiny silk hat

“and that’ the Lady said, “is that.

It’s time to hit the road.”