I think I can just squeeze all the poem into a comment.
The machines breathe for him: Air hisses through narrow tubes That snake around the bed like knotweed And keep his chest moving.
On the bedside table are flowers, Cards, a bottle of lemonade and A handwritten note signed by Emma B. Nurses check on him constantly.
Outside his window, snow falls Lightly coating mural-painted walls And melting on the hot engines of Red-and-blue lighted police cars.
The Chinese New Year starts tonight: The Year of the Rat, But he already knew that. Soft footsteps Tiptoe in and he opens his eyes.
“Do you remember the party we threw when Voyager 2 Left the Solar system?” Fifteen months ago. He nods, and she smiles. “They said you might have amnesia.” Smile falters. “That might have been easier.”
Her fingers touch his forehead like summer rain on grass. “Mr. Potatoes,” she says, “is an ass.” Spud he thinks, and though he tries to speak It’s that or breathe and the plastic tube won’t move.
“Kittering’s Vigil,” she says and he blinks twice for yes. It overlooks the whole town; look up and it’s there Competing with air for ‘most ubiquitous thing’. “He pushed you off.” Blink. Blink.
“Looks like the tip-off was right: Our agricultural Knight has feet of clay.” Her voice is tender but he still tries to laugh At the image of Spud, knee-deep in mud, clad in mail.
Her anger is palpable, prowling the room like a cat, Peering into the corners, staring at shadows, seeing red. Then leaping up on the bed and seeing the occupant, Seeing Red a little bit broken but not dead. Yet.
“We can’t afford to wait,” she says. He knows she hates delays but, well, moving is hard. “If we give Spud a respite….” She shakes her head. “Tomorrow night, I’ll go his office myself.”
He blinks, once for no as they had agreed And she waits until he blinks again though he fights against it. “Two for yes, snooping is green for go!” Is this feeling love or indigestion? He doesn’t know.
The machines breathe for him. Air hisses through tubes, the only noise in the room He thinks he sounds like Darth Vader, or is it Dr Doom? Somewhere outside Emma B is taking action…
Part II If Commerce is the engine of Government, The security guards here have Engine Duty. Through night-vision goggles they are green And black, and their patrols have… holes.
Either this is a trap Or someone else is here already, Slipping through Spud’s defences As though potatoes don’t have eyes.
Red would dance through the night and the guards, Blinding cameras and conjoining with shadows, Leaving them sure there were four of him — or more. Emma walks up to the first and asks for directions.
He’s confused and as he tries to help the confusion mounts, Rising like a mist that hides misdirection and misdeeds. Emma smiles and nods and agrees with everything he says, When she walks away he’s sweating.
And somehow… she walks into a building she never Came out of as though she’s returning to work. She filches keys from a concierge desk and unlocks a Private elevator and sets about finding her way.
And the plans that the man has drawn up are there In a room on the thirty-fourth floor. Next door — She pauses and peeks — there’s a powerpoint show going on. Spud is going up in the world, that’s for sure,
She lingers like mist over water obscuring a navigator’s view, Eavesdropping on military conversations. Spud has support for plans that will only displace a few Tens of thousands… just small considerations.
“The water will rise to the level of Kittering’s Vigil,” Says a woman with pince-nez spectacles. “We’ll rename it Kittering’s Landing; kids can fish there For lobsters and… things with tentacles.”
And my goodness, this is impressive when viewed all together like this. I know it's mid-May, but I hadn't realized it has come so far already. Looking forward to seeing where you take this tale :)
2 comments:
I think I can just squeeze all the poem into a comment.
The machines breathe for him:
Air hisses through narrow tubes
That snake around the bed like knotweed
And keep his chest moving.
On the bedside table are flowers,
Cards, a bottle of lemonade and
A handwritten note signed by Emma B.
Nurses check on him constantly.
Outside his window, snow falls
Lightly coating mural-painted walls
And melting on the hot engines of
Red-and-blue lighted police cars.
The Chinese New Year starts tonight:
The Year of the Rat,
But he already knew that. Soft footsteps
Tiptoe in and he opens his eyes.
“Do you remember the party we threw when Voyager 2
Left the Solar system?” Fifteen months ago.
He nods, and she smiles. “They said you might have amnesia.”
Smile falters. “That might have been easier.”
Her fingers touch his forehead like summer rain on grass.
“Mr. Potatoes,” she says, “is an ass.”
Spud he thinks, and though he tries to speak
It’s that or breathe and the plastic tube won’t move.
“Kittering’s Vigil,” she says and he blinks twice for yes.
It overlooks the whole town; look up and it’s there
Competing with air for ‘most ubiquitous thing’.
“He pushed you off.” Blink. Blink.
“Looks like the tip-off was right:
Our agricultural Knight has feet of clay.”
Her voice is tender but he still tries to laugh
At the image of Spud, knee-deep in mud, clad in mail.
Her anger is palpable, prowling the room like a cat,
Peering into the corners, staring at shadows, seeing red.
Then leaping up on the bed and seeing the occupant,
Seeing Red a little bit broken but not dead. Yet.
“We can’t afford to wait,” she says.
He knows she hates delays but, well, moving is hard.
“If we give Spud a respite….” She shakes her head.
“Tomorrow night, I’ll go his office myself.”
He blinks, once for no as they had agreed
And she waits until he blinks again though he fights against it.
“Two for yes, snooping is green for go!”
Is this feeling love or indigestion? He doesn’t know.
The machines breathe for him.
Air hisses through tubes, the only noise in the room
He thinks he sounds like Darth Vader, or is it Dr Doom?
Somewhere outside Emma B is taking action…
Part II
If Commerce is the engine of Government,
The security guards here have Engine Duty.
Through night-vision goggles they are green
And black, and their patrols have… holes.
Either this is a trap
Or someone else is here already,
Slipping through Spud’s defences
As though potatoes don’t have eyes.
Red would dance through the night and the guards,
Blinding cameras and conjoining with shadows,
Leaving them sure there were four of him — or more.
Emma walks up to the first and asks for directions.
He’s confused and as he tries to help the confusion mounts,
Rising like a mist that hides misdirection and misdeeds.
Emma smiles and nods and agrees with everything he says,
When she walks away he’s sweating.
And somehow… she walks into a building she never
Came out of as though she’s returning to work.
She filches keys from a concierge desk and unlocks a
Private elevator and sets about finding her way.
And the plans that the man has drawn up are there
In a room on the thirty-fourth floor. Next door —
She pauses and peeks — there’s a powerpoint show going on.
Spud is going up in the world, that’s for sure,
She lingers like mist over water obscuring a navigator’s view,
Eavesdropping on military conversations.
Spud has support for plans that will only displace a few
Tens of thousands… just small considerations.
“The water will rise to the level of Kittering’s Vigil,”
Says a woman with pince-nez spectacles.
“We’ll rename it Kittering’s Landing; kids can fish there
For lobsters and… things with tentacles.”
Greg - indeed you can!
And my goodness, this is impressive when viewed all together like this. I know it's mid-May, but I hadn't realized it has come so far already. Looking forward to seeing where you take this tale :)
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