But first…
Dulltown. UK: Today’s nice moths names are: the Netted Carpet, the Orange-tailed Clearwing, the Ground Lackey, the December Moth, the Red Sword-grass, the Chimney Sweeper, and the Straw Dot.
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Yes, last week, it was Tuesday afternoon, or was it Wednesday?
I was standing in line, in the queue, at the post office in the town centre, the one that is inside W H Smiths bookshop. I needed to buy some expensive first class stamps, perhaps I’d even have a book of eight of them?
There were a few people in the queue, about three or four in front of me, and a couple of them behind me. People at the desk were waving passports around and trying to pay for their utilities bills.
I felt a nudge at my side. Yes, a nudge.
I didn’t look around. Who would respond to a nudge?
A grubby hand appeared under my arm, it had a white piece of white card in it. The card was waved, and proffered to me.
I shuffled one step forward in the queue, as did the person behind me – the utility bills at the desk had been paid.
I looked down, the card said, ‘I am behind you – do not look around…’
A person behind, moved even closer to me – I could smell alcohol, and tobacco, as on someone’s breath. It spoke close to my ear, and although it was whispering, I recognised the voice as being that of Simon Doom, a poet (a spoet, spoof poet) from the glory days of the Hull Surrealist League.
He began whispering, closer, in my ear:
‘Me, and Tony Mayonnaise, have both had a letter…’
I said, ‘Hang on, don’t you and Tony hate each other’?
‘Yes we do… But some things – are more important…’
‘Really’?
‘Yes, the letter was from a big, influential London publishing firm – they say that…’
‘Oh shut up! That’s all in your head – in your heads!…’
‘No really, Davy-Boy, they want to, publish – a book of our work…’
‘A poetry book’?
‘Yes… No, a spoetry book. It will be called, Simon Doom and Tony Mayonnaise, their Spoetry Book.’
We moved on, in the queue.
I said, ‘What a load of tosh’!
He said. ‘You may think so, but…’
‘But what’?
‘But, before the book is published – here’s a copy, of my latest, spoem – you may put in into that awful blog thing that you do.’
‘Really’?
‘Yes…’
I then, with a spoem, on a ragged piece of paper, in my hand, went and got my stamps.
Damp node.
Cobblestone boot lounge.
Rubber money is apparent, the quills are out.
Stealth in the darkest corners.
Foot falls, foot falls, foot falls, foot falls.
The poisoned park is now alight.
Coops.
Paragon!
….
Quiet chafing and dog brasses on cuffs.
A barrel-vault porcupine injury.
Floodgates, floodgates, floodgates, floodgates.
So, I snap my other fingers!
Now dip into the void.
Dolphin-gate!
Coops.
Paragon!
….
Garnish and petroleum damp node.
Tickling hogs.
Pages with added hell!
Spoon, spoon, spoon, spoon, spoon.
More and more rubber money is failing now.
Oh, see my carols go!
Coops.
Paragon!
….
Simon Doom. 2024.
Dave Whatt 