Crouching Doom…

But first…
Dulltown, Europe: Today’s weather will feature apple-sized raindrops, wind like a blunted old knife, clouds shaped like dazzling battleships, and one gauze-covered pale disc.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Tuesday afternoon I encountered Simon Doom, poet from the glory days of the Hull Surrealist league. He was crouching down smoking a small cigar (that someone had given him) sheltering from a sleety shower in the covered smoking area in the car park of the Grafton pub. He spotted me and waved me over to join him, which I did (really just to get out of the sleet for a few minutes), but I refused to squat with him. I noticed a half consumed pint of flat pale lager nestling between his inadequately shod feet.
He said that he was just about to post off an application for a job…
I was astounded!…
He went on to say that he’d recently had ‘a great idea’. I was still stunned by the news of the job application, but I managed to ask him what his ‘great idea’ involved. He said that he was quite confident of getting the job of being Father Christmas in the basement grotto in the House of Fraser department store in the city centre. I thought it highly unlikely that he would be offered it, but I didn’t say so, and instead asked for more information on his ‘great idea’.
He told me that when he had the little boys and girls sitting on his knee he was planning take the opportunity to impart a bit of sophisticated culture to them, and would whisper some of his spoems (spoof poems) into their receptive young ears…
I then spent several minutes trying to explain to him that it wasn’t really that good an idea… He wasn’t having any of it though – in the end, I said that as I would be walking past the nearby postbox, I would post the application for him – just in case he was watching I pretended to put the letter in the box, but didn’t, and burned it as soon as I got home…

Quode mentha og-og tim,
Femillo takkmot boont uppy,
Ob-ob razmal pookbub thell,
Cataratta molp cataratta molp!
Fridget gammaway pukk-etty.

Chel-sod delaloe fukkno,
Amph lam buxty roob-tek,
Bo-ro bo-ro foxile temmies,
Stelpy a-munt stelpy a-munt!
Zazlo xoin demol noi-noi.

Omnik pattacon burph tayn,
Punge-dod fett-phot tollins,
Emeraldal fopdown uni-uni,
Hofbo bonut hofbo bonut!
Tim og-og mentha quode.

Simon Doom, Christmas 2015.

About Dave Whatt

Grumpy old surrealist artist, musician, postcard maker, bluesman, theatre set designer, and debonair man-about-town. My favourite tools are the plectrum and the pencil...
This entry was posted in art, brain, Dulltown, existentialism, Hull.UK., humour, jobs, poetry, serendipity, surrealism, Uncategorized, words and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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