FRENZY!!!
“Oh! What is this life, so full of care?
You call this nursery rhyme POETRY? Which world do you exist in? Jerk!” Said the publisher, as he brushed aside the flimsy set of papers that had been recommended to his random publishing house.
“For starters, this piece of junk should be called frenzy, not leisure!” He brandished his snow-capped pen, and furiously struck at the title of one poem, replacing it with his feedback, in all caps.
An eager intern picked up the scattered papers, and scurried out of the opulent cabin, decorated with his boss’s expatriated name plate. “Sorry, dude!” he muttered, as he handed the sheets to the disheveled writer - a pensive looking romantic, who had been suggested fame and fortune, and everything that goes with it, by his buddies in need of someone else to foot the regular alcohol tabs.
William Henry Davies, a Newportan tramp, walked away disappointed. He glanced at the shuffled sheets of writing, and noticed the bright ball-point poured onto his work from the previous week. FRENZY! one renamed poem should have been called. He could understand what was wrong with the one he had come up with, or why it should be published for that matter. He tore up the neatly typed pages and shoved them in the gaping mouth of a red and yellow clown, which had “FEED ME!” freshly painted on its looming torso.
At about that instant, one little boy, who had been dragged to the glittering Mall by his eager mother - (obsessed with thick potato wedges and Akbaraja Mac) - could not put up with the pandemonium in that glass cased outlet. He was especially violated by the tedious music videos on the abundant TV sets, lining the golden arched eaterie, and so, purposefully slunk out. Just as his mum was succumbing to the serpentine queues that fed mechanical cash registers, manned by smiling robots in red hats.
The boy noticed the man's act of casual disposal, and retrieved the pages from the trash-can. He sat down, next to the frightening "sculpture" named Ronald, and tried to make sense of the puzzle presented by a bunch of papers that he had witnessed being ripped. A good five minutes later, he held the assembled papers together.
FRENZY!, the red ink stood out on the otherwise black and white pages.
He did not quite understand the word. Puzzled further, he wondered if he had ever heard the term and looked around within the expanse of the rapidly rising phoenix mall, for explanation.
He saw nothing, beyond what he was accustomed to:
Shoppers' Stopped at Big Bazaars - wheeling out trolleys laden with toxic plastic bags and expensively discounted goods.
Baristas bucking stars. Doling out gunpowder laden nicotine sticks, to professionals hooked onto caffeine.
Music stores, shorn of anything worth listening to, except CD’s required to keep bowling companies falling like nine pins.
Parking lots that ran many basements down, and as many storeys up.
Eating stalls, feeding ballooning aunties, with an ever widening array of greasy foods.
Temporary booths, running promotions for the latest gizmos, stalled by young kids in search of quick bucks to buy ecstasy.
Compatetive drivers comparing the astronomical costs of their mistresses’ depression induced shopping sprees.
He saw nothing new at all that would help him understand what that word in red meant.
Glad that he had solved the puzzle of assembling paper-pieces, and unaware that the one provided by vocabulary would re-present itself later, he did his bit by re-stuffing the hideous clown’s hungry mouth with the publisher’s excreta. Then, promptly ran back to his beaming mother, who had just claimed her pound of flesh from the buzzing counter.
Outside, the plaster-of-paris-being, smiled and burped in satisfaction - at the new authentic flavour he had just sampled at the boy's hands. He knew, like the publisher did, that cows, sheep and boughs had no time to spare, either. They, too, were busy being processed into neat little patties served between soft, sesame buns.
At leisure, the painted clown sat and stared as he saw that publisher - whose rejection he had been fed with - pass through the golden arches, to join his wife and son for their first family dinner together in days.
A happily, invaluably, frenziedly, family meal.
Full of carelessness. But, Lovin' It!
Visit link: www.bbc.co.uk/wales/southeast/halloffame/arts/w_h_davies.shtml and http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leisure_(poem)
You call this nursery rhyme POETRY? Which world do you exist in? Jerk!” Said the publisher, as he brushed aside the flimsy set of papers that had been recommended to his random publishing house.
“For starters, this piece of junk should be called frenzy, not leisure!” He brandished his snow-capped pen, and furiously struck at the title of one poem, replacing it with his feedback, in all caps.
An eager intern picked up the scattered papers, and scurried out of the opulent cabin, decorated with his boss’s expatriated name plate. “Sorry, dude!” he muttered, as he handed the sheets to the disheveled writer - a pensive looking romantic, who had been suggested fame and fortune, and everything that goes with it, by his buddies in need of someone else to foot the regular alcohol tabs.
William Henry Davies, a Newportan tramp, walked away disappointed. He glanced at the shuffled sheets of writing, and noticed the bright ball-point poured onto his work from the previous week. FRENZY! one renamed poem should have been called. He could understand what was wrong with the one he had come up with, or why it should be published for that matter. He tore up the neatly typed pages and shoved them in the gaping mouth of a red and yellow clown, which had “FEED ME!” freshly painted on its looming torso.
At about that instant, one little boy, who had been dragged to the glittering Mall by his eager mother - (obsessed with thick potato wedges and Akbaraja Mac) - could not put up with the pandemonium in that glass cased outlet. He was especially violated by the tedious music videos on the abundant TV sets, lining the golden arched eaterie, and so, purposefully slunk out. Just as his mum was succumbing to the serpentine queues that fed mechanical cash registers, manned by smiling robots in red hats.
The boy noticed the man's act of casual disposal, and retrieved the pages from the trash-can. He sat down, next to the frightening "sculpture" named Ronald, and tried to make sense of the puzzle presented by a bunch of papers that he had witnessed being ripped. A good five minutes later, he held the assembled papers together.
FRENZY!, the red ink stood out on the otherwise black and white pages.
He did not quite understand the word. Puzzled further, he wondered if he had ever heard the term and looked around within the expanse of the rapidly rising phoenix mall, for explanation.
He saw nothing, beyond what he was accustomed to:
Shoppers' Stopped at Big Bazaars - wheeling out trolleys laden with toxic plastic bags and expensively discounted goods.
Baristas bucking stars. Doling out gunpowder laden nicotine sticks, to professionals hooked onto caffeine.
Music stores, shorn of anything worth listening to, except CD’s required to keep bowling companies falling like nine pins.
Parking lots that ran many basements down, and as many storeys up.
Eating stalls, feeding ballooning aunties, with an ever widening array of greasy foods.
Temporary booths, running promotions for the latest gizmos, stalled by young kids in search of quick bucks to buy ecstasy.
Compatetive drivers comparing the astronomical costs of their mistresses’ depression induced shopping sprees.
He saw nothing new at all that would help him understand what that word in red meant.
Glad that he had solved the puzzle of assembling paper-pieces, and unaware that the one provided by vocabulary would re-present itself later, he did his bit by re-stuffing the hideous clown’s hungry mouth with the publisher’s excreta. Then, promptly ran back to his beaming mother, who had just claimed her pound of flesh from the buzzing counter.
Outside, the plaster-of-paris-being, smiled and burped in satisfaction - at the new authentic flavour he had just sampled at the boy's hands. He knew, like the publisher did, that cows, sheep and boughs had no time to spare, either. They, too, were busy being processed into neat little patties served between soft, sesame buns.
At leisure, the painted clown sat and stared as he saw that publisher - whose rejection he had been fed with - pass through the golden arches, to join his wife and son for their first family dinner together in days.
A happily, invaluably, frenziedly, family meal.
Full of carelessness. But, Lovin' It!
Visit link: www.bbc.co.uk/wales/southeast/halloffame/arts/w_h_davies.shtml and http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leisure_(poem)
Comments