WTF?
—Poetry by Mike Hickman, York, England
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
BACK TODAY?
“Back today?” he asks, not meeting my gaze, and doing that thing with his lip.
I stand at the counter and I bunch my fists and I try to Maintain Calm.
“I know why you’re asking,” I want to tell him. “I know what you’re going to say.”
Okay, so I’ve heard him ask others. The guy in front of me only going one stop,
He asked him, too. Same tone of voice. Same failure to meet gaze. Same chew on the lip.
But he has got to know.
“You have got to know,” I want to tell Back Today Man. “Not just that we can’t come back another day if our journey’s not long enough. You know that. I bet you’ve got the British Rail rulebook tattooed under your string vest. I bet you recite it before your Olvatine at night.
No. You have got to know that it is Very Annoying to be asked a thing that is entirely pointless and that you only seem to ask because you like telling people that they can’t come back tomorrow. Or next month. Or any flipping day other than this day.
You know that. You have to. You must have bought a ticket yourself sometime in your life.
You must have had someone do it to you.
You must.”
“Yes,” I tell him, waiting to see if there’s a look of irritation. To see if I’ve spoiled his fun.
But he just presses the relevant button, waits for tickets to be spat out of the machine, somehow manages a sip of his Very Beige tea before he hands them over to me.
Nothing else. There never is. Not even a “have a nice trip”.
And I head out to the platform and I fume at the trolling from a man too old, surely,
To even know what trolling is.
I watch for the train and I pace the platform and, out of the corner of my eye,
I catch old “Back Today” as he shuffles in slippers—slippers!—out of the side door
To the ticket office and shuffle-slaps his way slowly to staffroom and armchair.
And I think for a moment, you’ve got this wrong here, mate.
You’ve given him the wrong answer each and every time.
Along with maybe everyone else he’s ever served on this down-at-heel branch line.
Tomorrow, I tell myself, I’ll give it a go.
Before he even has chance to ask, I’ll give him a journey where it’s not even possible to come back the same day.
I’ll give him a journey I’m not even intending to take and
I’ll make him look it all up in that timetable of his.
I’ll have him print out multiple tickets at multiple prices for multiple networks.
I’ll rattle that British Rail rulebook know-how in his noggin for all it is worth.
Because maybe that’s what he’s asking for to keep the mundanity back,
If only just today.
“Back today?” he asks, not meeting my gaze, and doing that thing with his lip.
I stand at the counter and I bunch my fists and I try to Maintain Calm.
“I know why you’re asking,” I want to tell him. “I know what you’re going to say.”
Okay, so I’ve heard him ask others. The guy in front of me only going one stop,
He asked him, too. Same tone of voice. Same failure to meet gaze. Same chew on the lip.
But he has got to know.
“You have got to know,” I want to tell Back Today Man. “Not just that we can’t come back another day if our journey’s not long enough. You know that. I bet you’ve got the British Rail rulebook tattooed under your string vest. I bet you recite it before your Olvatine at night.
No. You have got to know that it is Very Annoying to be asked a thing that is entirely pointless and that you only seem to ask because you like telling people that they can’t come back tomorrow. Or next month. Or any flipping day other than this day.
You know that. You have to. You must have bought a ticket yourself sometime in your life.
You must have had someone do it to you.
You must.”
“Yes,” I tell him, waiting to see if there’s a look of irritation. To see if I’ve spoiled his fun.
But he just presses the relevant button, waits for tickets to be spat out of the machine, somehow manages a sip of his Very Beige tea before he hands them over to me.
Nothing else. There never is. Not even a “have a nice trip”.
And I head out to the platform and I fume at the trolling from a man too old, surely,
To even know what trolling is.
I watch for the train and I pace the platform and, out of the corner of my eye,
I catch old “Back Today” as he shuffles in slippers—slippers!—out of the side door
To the ticket office and shuffle-slaps his way slowly to staffroom and armchair.
And I think for a moment, you’ve got this wrong here, mate.
You’ve given him the wrong answer each and every time.
Along with maybe everyone else he’s ever served on this down-at-heel branch line.
Tomorrow, I tell myself, I’ll give it a go.
Before he even has chance to ask, I’ll give him a journey where it’s not even possible to come back the same day.
I’ll give him a journey I’m not even intending to take and
I’ll make him look it all up in that timetable of his.
I’ll have him print out multiple tickets at multiple prices for multiple networks.
I’ll rattle that British Rail rulebook know-how in his noggin for all it is worth.
Because maybe that’s what he’s asking for to keep the mundanity back,
If only just today.
(prev. pub. by the Daily Drunk)
SUSCEPTIBLE TO THE SELL: From Jurassic Park to Populist Politicians via that Limited Edition VHS We Didn’t Know We Wanted
They say, these people who say things, that it’s amazing how these ideas take hold.
That it’s scary how quickly figures of ridicule can take over hearts and minds.
But it’s not.
Not really.
See, the experts have it wrong again.
Who needs them? (As that populist politician once said.)
It’s really quite simple.
If a family like mine, back in the day, who didn’t go to the cinema
(What with, shirt buttons?)
And didn’t go in much for popular culture at all
(Unless it was in leotard or high heels, in which case my Dad was there right away),
Could wind up owning that Limited Edition Jurassic Rock VHS tape of Spielberg’s film
(It was cheap plastic, alright? We knew that)
Because we’d been somehow sold that this was a Great Thing That Shouldn’t Be Missed
By the news stories and such that we weren’t even aware we were taking in,
Then anyone can be sold on the latest Big I Am Populist Politician.
We are all of us susceptible to the sell.
So it’s just like Jurassic Park, I tell them in the pub,
If they’re interested,
If we’re short of conversation,
If I’m trying to buy time before they realise its my round next.
And if they don’t understand,
I just say, well, look at these buggers in government now,
What other explanation can there possibly be for them existing,
Apart from scientists retrieving their dinosaur DNA
From sodding amber?
They say, these people who say things, that it’s amazing how these ideas take hold.
That it’s scary how quickly figures of ridicule can take over hearts and minds.
But it’s not.
Not really.
See, the experts have it wrong again.
Who needs them? (As that populist politician once said.)
It’s really quite simple.
If a family like mine, back in the day, who didn’t go to the cinema
(What with, shirt buttons?)
And didn’t go in much for popular culture at all
(Unless it was in leotard or high heels, in which case my Dad was there right away),
Could wind up owning that Limited Edition Jurassic Rock VHS tape of Spielberg’s film
(It was cheap plastic, alright? We knew that)
Because we’d been somehow sold that this was a Great Thing That Shouldn’t Be Missed
By the news stories and such that we weren’t even aware we were taking in,
Then anyone can be sold on the latest Big I Am Populist Politician.
We are all of us susceptible to the sell.
So it’s just like Jurassic Park, I tell them in the pub,
If they’re interested,
If we’re short of conversation,
If I’m trying to buy time before they realise its my round next.
And if they don’t understand,
I just say, well, look at these buggers in government now,
What other explanation can there possibly be for them existing,
Apart from scientists retrieving their dinosaur DNA
From sodding amber?
(prev. pub. by Winamop)
THE SPAD PLAYERS PRESENT
The SPAD Players Present
Someone else’s great idea
Written a hundred years ago, maybe two,
Directed by the woman who brought you,
Only five years ago now,
Our scintillating Three Sisters
That said so much to our community
About other people living far away, in far-off times.
Starring, direct from their day jobs,
A load of people you’ve unfortunately heard of,
Most more keen on the dressing-up,
And the fine hats,
Than the resonance of their half-learned words
To today’s lives and troubles.
And, in the lead, the director’s beau,
Unsuitably cast, of course, but he does have such a good head of hair,
And always looks the part in the photos.
“The part” being the same one he played last time,
No matter the title on the poster.
The SPAD Players Present
Their latest sell-out production,
Written a hundred years ago, maybe two.
Their latest sell-out.
Sold out.
(prev. pub. by 11 Mag Berlin)
The SPAD Players Present
Someone else’s great idea
Written a hundred years ago, maybe two,
Directed by the woman who brought you,
Only five years ago now,
Our scintillating Three Sisters
That said so much to our community
About other people living far away, in far-off times.
Starring, direct from their day jobs,
A load of people you’ve unfortunately heard of,
Most more keen on the dressing-up,
And the fine hats,
Than the resonance of their half-learned words
To today’s lives and troubles.
And, in the lead, the director’s beau,
Unsuitably cast, of course, but he does have such a good head of hair,
And always looks the part in the photos.
“The part” being the same one he played last time,
No matter the title on the poster.
The SPAD Players Present
Their latest sell-out production,
Written a hundred years ago, maybe two.
Their latest sell-out.
Sold out.
(prev. pub. by 11 Mag Berlin)
YOU MAY THINK
You may think
I used to believe that you did
You may think you know
Ah, but did I ever ask you what you knew?
You may think you know someone
Well, that’s true, but do we even know ourselves?
Do you?
You may think you know someone but
Oh, I could see that one coming
You may think you know someone but it takes
And what was taken, eh? In the end?
All that I was. All that I would ever be.
You may think you know someone but it takes falling apart
And that is what happened. To me. As you watched.
You may think you know someone but it takes falling apart to see
No. No, you didn’t see. I was rejected and dismissed, because you saw my pain.
Slapped, pushed away, sent away. Ended because I “showed you up”.
Others had done it before; you weren’t letting it happen again.
You may think you know someone but it takes falling apart to see their true colors
At least, on that, we agree.
You may think
I used to believe that you did
You may think you know
Ah, but did I ever ask you what you knew?
You may think you know someone
Well, that’s true, but do we even know ourselves?
Do you?
You may think you know someone but
Oh, I could see that one coming
You may think you know someone but it takes
And what was taken, eh? In the end?
All that I was. All that I would ever be.
You may think you know someone but it takes falling apart
And that is what happened. To me. As you watched.
You may think you know someone but it takes falling apart to see
No. No, you didn’t see. I was rejected and dismissed, because you saw my pain.
Slapped, pushed away, sent away. Ended because I “showed you up”.
Others had done it before; you weren’t letting it happen again.
You may think you know someone but it takes falling apart to see their true colors
At least, on that, we agree.
(prev. pub. by Kitchen Sink Magazine)
KARMIC FEEDBACK
According to the rule you understand
bad things will come.
And, as the meme says, if you’re lucky
you’ll be able to watch them, too.
So is it any wonder I have shut myself down?
Packed myself away, made myself smaller
than I’ve ever been,
even after the diet?
According to the words you read on Facebook,
posted and liked a thousand times over,
I will reap what I have sown,
there will be a fall, and it will be justified too.
So is it any wonder I have ended all I could end,
stopping short only of ending myself,
and even then, only by accident,
only by omission?
According to the rule you understand
this is no more, no less than it should be,
but, I bargain, if I’ve done it to myself,
does it count as karma at all?
Can I beat your rule
even if the end result is the same?
And can I hear you laugh,
As you realise where my reasoning will take me?
(prev. pub. by Kingz Daily)
HENCEFORTH
From henceforth, I will leave the knife and fork akimbo, on opposite sides of the table if I can.
I will wear the socks until holes are all they are.
And I will ride the clutch so very, very much.
I will eat the Quorn you always, but always, said yuck to.
I will fail at skimming stones and not care that mine sink without trace and never bounce.
Not even once.
From henceforth, I will stop feeling small and silly and lacking in comparison with you.
And I will properly own all the reasons your snark upset me.
Because the comparison was always on your terms.
My failings held up against all you could already safely do.
No consideration given to what I was…what I am good at.
Because where’s the “fun” in that?
From henceforth, I will forget your manners, your rules and your so-called teasing.
Because that’s not really what it ever was, as you well know.
Although I might—just—feel sorry that you can’t leave the knife and fork be.
Even when they’re not on your own fucking plate.
(prev. pub. by the Daily Drunk)
_______________________
Today’s (Longer)Nip:
ARCS
—Mike Hickman
I cannot tell you
where I am now
except it is Dark
and the wheels are rattling
against metal. They spark
into black, ink night.
The light arcs and hurts my eyes
yet I do not know where I am,
Nor do I mind
If I reach where I want to go,
for it’s all the same to me.
One city much as next
In the Dark.
What they were before
Is no different from what they are now,
So why worry
When it all stays Dark
and the wheels are rattling against metal
and light Arcs and
hurts my eyes?
(prev. pub. by Safe and Sound Press)
_______________________
—Medusa, welcoming Mike Hickman and his intriguing poetry back to the Kitchen today!
From henceforth, I will leave the knife and fork akimbo, on opposite sides of the table if I can.
I will wear the socks until holes are all they are.
And I will ride the clutch so very, very much.
I will eat the Quorn you always, but always, said yuck to.
I will fail at skimming stones and not care that mine sink without trace and never bounce.
Not even once.
From henceforth, I will stop feeling small and silly and lacking in comparison with you.
And I will properly own all the reasons your snark upset me.
Because the comparison was always on your terms.
My failings held up against all you could already safely do.
No consideration given to what I was…what I am good at.
Because where’s the “fun” in that?
From henceforth, I will forget your manners, your rules and your so-called teasing.
Because that’s not really what it ever was, as you well know.
Although I might—just—feel sorry that you can’t leave the knife and fork be.
Even when they’re not on your own fucking plate.
(prev. pub. by the Daily Drunk)
_______________________
Today’s (Longer)Nip:
ARCS
—Mike Hickman
I cannot tell you
where I am now
except it is Dark
and the wheels are rattling
against metal. They spark
into black, ink night.
The light arcs and hurts my eyes
yet I do not know where I am,
Nor do I mind
If I reach where I want to go,
for it’s all the same to me.
One city much as next
In the Dark.
What they were before
Is no different from what they are now,
So why worry
When it all stays Dark
and the wheels are rattling against metal
and light Arcs and
hurts my eyes?
(prev. pub. by Safe and Sound Press)
_______________________
—Medusa, welcoming Mike Hickman and his intriguing poetry back to the Kitchen today!
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
