Trump - Their King’s Touch

 

He’s a pig eyed, ham headed brute

Shoehorned into a cartoon character suit

Long phallic tie,

A compensatory lie, 

A ham fisted, 

Ham acting

King 

Of the MAGA sty.

Over seventy million Americans 

Will make their mark 

Beside his trademark, fooled twice, 

The mark of the mark, 

Blood in the water 

For this dead eyed shark.

The high priest of grievance, 

An unholy allegiance 

With the peddlers of bastardised faith,

Driving the greed machine 

Crashing through the Anthropocene,

A fossil fuelled end of days wraith

More a symptom than a man

The phlegm of the infection

Pick your forced card, 

Call it divine intervention.

And over seventy million Americans 

Will make their mark beside his name

Bluffed by his fortune

Aroused by his fame

Outsource their bullying

Let him take the blame 

Averting their eyes

From their emperor’s naked shame.

The marks and their con

The gang and their don

The red capped, red pilled 

Red white and gammon

A nation creating itself in the image of Elvis

A nation 

A casino

The wager of Job

A nation

A fiasco

The dealer is the mob

And over seventy million Americans 

Will make their mark 

Beside his trademark, 

Believing 

Their King’s touch

Will cure them 

Of what ails them.

Parkstreet

Ko-Fi

Violin Holy

From a photograph by Kris Reichl

 At four years old, he doesn't possess the words to tell himself what he is seeing. He is old enough to know that no one he knows can see what he sees. 

Sitting alone away from the fire, he watches the old man playing violin. He can see the essence of the man, the bones and heart of him. The boy's dark eyes can see the internal structure of the violin too, how the timber and shape conspire to create beautiful sound. He knows that once he gains the manual dexterity of an adult, he will be able to build the perfect violin.

That's not all he sees. As he stares at the fire, he can see his own life, to the point of his death.

For two years now, since the first time he touched a woman's belly and said, “baby”, women from all over have been brought to him to discern pregnancy. He has learned to create a performance, lay on hands and hum to himself, so everyone feels comfortable. But he can see it, feel it the first time he lays eyes on the woman. He knows that in the future he will have to hide this, and every other vision he possesses, pretend to grow out of this magic state. What is wonderful in a boy is unnerving in a man. 

He already knows that he will live a solitary life, that the only way he will be able to express the essence he sees will be through music. He will travel and play violin.

The way he plays will enchant and disturb people. His talent will be welcome, his essential truth less so. He will teach those who come to him, try to give his gift to the few who will comprehend. Eventually, he will retire to a workshop and build violins. His violins will contain everything he has seen, everything he knows.

His instruments being played around the world will, for a moment, connect people to something they yearn for.

The boy stares at the fire, then at the old man playing violin. At four years old, he already knows that the path of a holy man won't be easy, that it will take millions like him, over thousands of years, to leave behind enough beauty for everyone to begin to understand.

Parkstreet

Ko-Fi

We Are The Flying Boys

 "Mama always told me not to look into sights of the sun,

Oh but Mama, that's where the fun is."

Springsteen

You've seen us soaring above, wondered if you could ever join us. Our name is a parental caution, making us more delicious. Some say all we do is fly around all day and all night, but if you could fly, what would you do?

Unlike Peter Pan and his effete cohorts we know we will grow old, so every day we fly higher, try to touch the sun. Those who succeed die young and gorgeous, plummet tremendously, powerfully. For the rest, we know one day we will be too old and weak to fly, there will be a time to walk the earth again.

Of course we are afraid. Being a Flying Boy is against all the laws of nature, and nature will track down and kill her outlaws. Facing fear with style is what makes us beautiful.

We are few. If we didn't exist someone would invent us. We are living dreams.

We are the Flying Boys.

Parkstreet 

Ko-Fi 

Grey, From The Last War

 The great general removed his hat, placed it on the head of his sergeant. The great general wrapped his famous coat, grey, from the last war, not blue like the current ones, around the shoulders of his bewildered subordinate. 

“Today, you will inspect the parade. Let us see who is paying attention.”

The sergeant was accustomed to the quirks of the general, knew better than to argue. He gratefully accepted three large swigs of good brandy, to give him the swagger of a great general, stepped out to impersonate one.

The great general heard the call to attention. He heard two cracks from a sniper's rifle. He heard the scattering of the men. His intelligence had been sound.

He knew there was a spy in his camp, that the enemy knew he was there. He also knew the enemy were low on ammunition, unable to mount a serious attack, in the same circumstances he would have sent a sniper on a suicide mission to kill a figurehead general too. He knew the soldiers would have smelled the liquor on the breath of his sergeant, the episode would be written up as a drunken prank. He'd thought of everything.

Once the turmoil calmed the great general walked out onto the makeshift parade ground. He'd hoped by placing his coat over the shoulders of his dupe it might fall free, but the fool had wrapped it around himself. The coat was blood soaked and ruined.

Of course he had thought of this possibility too, and asked his wife to send a replacement a couple of days before. Grey, from the last war, not blue.

He looked down at the body of his sergeant. 

“You won't brag about beating me at chess again.”

Parkstreet 

Ko-Fi

And Floated And Floated

“That’s the hungriest seagull I’ve ever seen. I reckon it’s the hungriest seagull in the world. You should give him one of your chips”, said Ethan.

“You should give him one of your chips. And I think it’s a girl seagull”, replied Hazel.

Ethan, playing for time on the chip question, agreed that it may well be a girl seagull. They were both holding packages of steaming hot, salty chips close to their chests, steam came with their breath too, the cold was part of the adventure.

“We could both give her a chip?”

Hazel smiled at her friend, he really was a nice boy, for a boy.

The world’s hungriest seagull scoffed both chips in seconds, living up to her nickname.

“I wonder why she’s so cold and hungry? I’ve never seen a seagull like this before”, said Hazel.

“Only one leg too”, noted Ethan.

In silent agreement they both fed one more chip each to their new friend, the still very hungry world’s hungriest seagull.

Looking out onto the bay Ethan had a sudden thought.

“Remember that day we were out in your uncle’s boat, picking up and cleaning birds after the big oil leak?”

“Mmm hmmm. That was the day we met.”

“Was it?”

“Boys really are hopeless”, thought Hazel.

“Do you remember that one seagull we reached for, but it just floated away before we could get to it? Completely covered in black oil? I wonder . . . “

“Ooh, do you think this might be her?”, asked Hazel, then, to the seagull, “I’m sorry girl, we did our best, we tried to help, we just couldn’t help everyone”.

Another two chips were offered, in compensation to the world’s hungriest seagull.

Ethan said, “I reckon she couldn’t swim or fly, because the oil was stuck to her, so she just floated and floated, out of the bay and into the ocean, then floated and floated . . . “

“And floated and floated and floated and floated until she reached Antarctica!”, shouted Hazel, scaring Ethan, and the seagull.

“Oh, oh, and the penguins saw a black and white bird, and she could only waddle, not walk, because she was so stuck together with oil, and the penguins took her in as one of their own!”, exclaimed Ethan.

“She made penguin friends? Good for her. And played penguin games, sliding on the ice, and snowball fights. And they fed her and helped her get well again.”

And two more chips were dispensed, this time with silly penguin waddling and laughing and smiling eyes.

“But over time the oil started to wash off, which left her feeling cold because she’s not really made for penguin temperatures”, said Ethan.

“The penguins felt sad, but knew they had to let their new friend go home. I think they put her on an iceberg then all got behind it and pushed and pushed, and pushed and pushed, and pushed that iceberg  towards, well, here. And she floated and floated and floated and floated, back into our little bay”, said Hazel.

“She’s home.”

“And now we’ll be her friends and come back here to share our chips with her to make sure she’s ok”, said Ethan.

“Yes, we will”, agreed Hazel, happily.

“I’d bet the iceberg was so cold that she had to keep changing which foot she stood on, then one night on the long journey she fell asleep, and one leg was frozen off”, said Ethan, thoughtfully.

“Is that why some seagulls only have one leg?”, asked Hazel.

“I think so”, replied Ethan.

They both tipped the last crumbs of their chips onto the ground near the hungriest seagull in the world, screwed up the paper then laughed as they both threw their balls and missed the bin, had to pick them up and try again.

“The street lights are coming on, we’d better get you home before your mum freaks out”, said Ethan.

“Your mum too.”

“True.”

“The hand I took out of my glove to feed the world’s hungriest seagull is freezing”, whispered Hazel.

“Mine too.”

He held out his hand, she took it, they walked towards their homes.

“Boys can be ok”, thought Hazel.

They both looked over their shoulders at the worlds hungriest seagull, smiled at their new friend, smiled at each other, felt the warmth of each others hands, felt the warmth of kindness and love in the world.

Parkstreet

Ko-Fi