—Poetry by Mike Hickman, York, England
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
OVERALL I FEEL EMOTIONALLY WELL (AND OTHER QUESTIONS ON YOUR SODDING QUESTIONNAIRE, ALL EQUALLY AS DIFFICULT TO ANSWER)
Overall (overall?) I feel emotionally well.
Isn’t that a split infinitive?
And what constitutes emotionally well?
How ‘bout a few examples?
Does reaching the bottom of the Pringles tube
Without too much in the way of self-loathing
Constitute emotionally well?
Is watching “I’m a Celeb” and “Love Island”
Without engaging in a Twitter pile-on emotionally well?
I say it to myself enough times and it loses all meaning.
Emotionally Well.
Emotionally.
Well.
Emotion.
Well.
Do these words even belong in the same sentence?
What if I don’t think these words belong in the same sentence?
That’s not how I’ve rolled up to now.
Emotional and well.
Well and emotional.
Where’s the tick box for that, then?
The these-two-don’t-go-together tick box?
Why don’t you allow me to rank that, then?
Strongly agree, agree, neutral, disagree, strongly disagree.
You want me to strongly agree that I am emotionally well
Without me knowing what it means to you if I say that.
When I doubt that anyone who’d answer strongly agree to being emotionally well
Could possibly frickin’ be emotionally well in the first place.
What kind of sicko would it make me, when I’m seeking your help,
To tell you that I’m quite alright, thank you very much?
What box are you going to tick for that one, then?
Where is your answer sheet?
Just fucking tell me:
How much emotional wellness can an emotionally unwell person claim to have?
You’d be better off asking me to rank my mental state in Pringles consumed.
(prev. pub. by The Haven)
Overall (overall?) I feel emotionally well.
Isn’t that a split infinitive?
And what constitutes emotionally well?
How ‘bout a few examples?
Does reaching the bottom of the Pringles tube
Without too much in the way of self-loathing
Constitute emotionally well?
Is watching “I’m a Celeb” and “Love Island”
Without engaging in a Twitter pile-on emotionally well?
I say it to myself enough times and it loses all meaning.
Emotionally Well.
Emotionally.
Well.
Emotion.
Well.
Do these words even belong in the same sentence?
What if I don’t think these words belong in the same sentence?
That’s not how I’ve rolled up to now.
Emotional and well.
Well and emotional.
Where’s the tick box for that, then?
The these-two-don’t-go-together tick box?
Why don’t you allow me to rank that, then?
Strongly agree, agree, neutral, disagree, strongly disagree.
You want me to strongly agree that I am emotionally well
Without me knowing what it means to you if I say that.
When I doubt that anyone who’d answer strongly agree to being emotionally well
Could possibly frickin’ be emotionally well in the first place.
What kind of sicko would it make me, when I’m seeking your help,
To tell you that I’m quite alright, thank you very much?
What box are you going to tick for that one, then?
Where is your answer sheet?
Just fucking tell me:
How much emotional wellness can an emotionally unwell person claim to have?
You’d be better off asking me to rank my mental state in Pringles consumed.
(prev. pub. by The Haven)
CONSULTING THE PAPERWORK
You will have caught them consulting the paperwork.
Oh you will.
When you became a vegan, say,
And they went through the footnotes
And the bibliography
To find the source
For that query about what you’d do
If you were sick
And you needed those non-vegan meds.
What would you do then, eh?
They’ve got you there, haven’t they?
Page 1123, paragraph five, sentence four.
Ha.
And don’t think they’ve not clocked the shoes,
And any item of clothing,
That might not meet with your proclaimed beliefs
Because, you see,
Whether it’s becoming a vegan
Or joining a political party
Or holding any opinion about anything at all,
They’ve got the paperwork,
They’ve bought the handbook,
They’re ready with the index,
They’ve found the effing tweet
That highlights the clause that will shame you most.
Unless, of course, you remember
What shames them most.
Which is when you point out it’s not so much
That they’ve got the wrong volume,
As the wrong translation
Into the wrong language,
And sorry, what and how much was that now?
Perhaps they could try putting
The problem into their own words.
And, no, saying “ah, well, that’s me fucked then”
Simply doesn’t cut it.
(prev. pub. by Doctor Funny)
You will have caught them consulting the paperwork.
Oh you will.
When you became a vegan, say,
And they went through the footnotes
And the bibliography
To find the source
For that query about what you’d do
If you were sick
And you needed those non-vegan meds.
What would you do then, eh?
They’ve got you there, haven’t they?
Page 1123, paragraph five, sentence four.
Ha.
And don’t think they’ve not clocked the shoes,
And any item of clothing,
That might not meet with your proclaimed beliefs
Because, you see,
Whether it’s becoming a vegan
Or joining a political party
Or holding any opinion about anything at all,
They’ve got the paperwork,
They’ve bought the handbook,
They’re ready with the index,
They’ve found the effing tweet
That highlights the clause that will shame you most.
Unless, of course, you remember
What shames them most.
Which is when you point out it’s not so much
That they’ve got the wrong volume,
As the wrong translation
Into the wrong language,
And sorry, what and how much was that now?
Perhaps they could try putting
The problem into their own words.
And, no, saying “ah, well, that’s me fucked then”
Simply doesn’t cut it.
(prev. pub. by Doctor Funny)
THE FLATUOSITY OF LATE-STAGE CAPITALISM
It’s the best and quickest response to the story.
“I think that’s overblown.”
And you don’t even know the joke you’ve made until I point it out.
We’re talking about a reality TV star (how often is it a reality TV star?)
Who has been hospitalised
After trying that bit too hard
With her side-hustle
Of selling farts in a jar.
Even the story online had to add (yes, really) in brackets after that one.
For a thousand dollars a time,
She’d been parping them out,
And stoppering them up,
Until she’d stoppered herself up.
Too many protein shakes and too much black bean soup, apparently.
“Intense gas pains,” apparently.
And you hear the story and you say, “I think that’s overblown”.
That nearly did for me, that really did.
So I had to tell Twitter.
On reflection, though, the real punchline,
Quite apart from the realisation that practically every trending story of the Moment
Is as substantial as a fart in a jar,
Was the woman herself,
When asked how she felt, now her gastric emergency had been resolved.
“It’s a relief,” she said,
As if that isn’t the point of flatulence in the first place.
When late-stage capitalism doesn’t get in the way.
(prev. pub. by The Daily Drunk)
AVOIDING PETER SELLERS’ BAD LUCK
Peter Sellers, we knew, because our mother told us, did not like green.
In fact, he would leave the set if anyone wore green,
And would fire the director if they persisted in doing so.
So green was verboten in our own lives, even when green was necessary.
That graduation gown, for example,
Or the baize in the snooker hall.
Or the garden we had paved with crazy paving
Because why not be effing literal as well as figurative?
Our mother wasn't risking Peter Sellers' bad luck
Even for graduation,
Even for that tournament I tell myself I would have won,
Even for the very little beauty we might have managed on our rundown estate.
Common sense and familial harmony didn’t come into it.
Peter did not like green.
So you can imagine what happened when she discovered he hated purple, too.
And then there was the small matter of Orson Welles.
Peter hated Orson Welles.
So that was my film education buggered,
At least until I left home.
And, of course, I’ve been on a diet ever since.
But, you see, the thing is—
The thing I wish we could have told her then—
The thing that can’t help but occur to me now
Is that if she really did believe we’d do well
By avoiding Peter Sellers’ bad luck
She might have paused for a moment
To notice
That it wasn’t green or purple or Orson Welles that got him in the end.
(prev. pub. by Doctor Funny)
Peter Sellers, we knew, because our mother told us, did not like green.
In fact, he would leave the set if anyone wore green,
And would fire the director if they persisted in doing so.
So green was verboten in our own lives, even when green was necessary.
That graduation gown, for example,
Or the baize in the snooker hall.
Or the garden we had paved with crazy paving
Because why not be effing literal as well as figurative?
Our mother wasn't risking Peter Sellers' bad luck
Even for graduation,
Even for that tournament I tell myself I would have won,
Even for the very little beauty we might have managed on our rundown estate.
Common sense and familial harmony didn’t come into it.
Peter did not like green.
So you can imagine what happened when she discovered he hated purple, too.
And then there was the small matter of Orson Welles.
Peter hated Orson Welles.
So that was my film education buggered,
At least until I left home.
And, of course, I’ve been on a diet ever since.
But, you see, the thing is—
The thing I wish we could have told her then—
The thing that can’t help but occur to me now
Is that if she really did believe we’d do well
By avoiding Peter Sellers’ bad luck
She might have paused for a moment
To notice
That it wasn’t green or purple or Orson Welles that got him in the end.
(prev. pub. by Doctor Funny)
MR HAPPY VISITS
I remember Mr Tickle.
And even though I was a “serious child”,
(Said Mrs Wood and Mrs Stone
when neither wanted laughter,
that much was for certain).
I found the arms winding
through letterboxes amusing
(did I?).
And I remember Mr Rush,
permanent dust cloud behind him,
and Mr Bump with his bandages,
and Mr Impossible with upside down hat.
But Mr Happy? No, I don’t remember him at all.
I was too young to make anything of it.
Too young to know he was
the front and centre guy whenever
the Mr Men Assembled.
(We never went in for Superhero movies,
apart from that time at the grandparents
I saw twice only.
Your parents.
They had Superman.
They’d borrowed it down the Fox.
A pirate copy on Betamax.
Which I saw while that kid
ran around the room with his nappy off.
And poop on his hands.
Marvellous thing, memory, isn’t it?)
Why not Mr Happy?
Surely he must have visited me once?
Did you bring him through on the way out,
like you brought the others
That while, that short while,
When you’d tuck me in
before going off to work for the night?
Or wherever it was you went
when you lost the job
and the bills mounted up
above the kitchen cabinets.
Or was Mr Happy one lie too many
for you, even then?
(prev. pub. by The Haven)
I remember Mr Tickle.
And even though I was a “serious child”,
(Said Mrs Wood and Mrs Stone
when neither wanted laughter,
that much was for certain).
I found the arms winding
through letterboxes amusing
(did I?).
And I remember Mr Rush,
permanent dust cloud behind him,
and Mr Bump with his bandages,
and Mr Impossible with upside down hat.
But Mr Happy? No, I don’t remember him at all.
I was too young to make anything of it.
Too young to know he was
the front and centre guy whenever
the Mr Men Assembled.
(We never went in for Superhero movies,
apart from that time at the grandparents
I saw twice only.
Your parents.
They had Superman.
They’d borrowed it down the Fox.
A pirate copy on Betamax.
Which I saw while that kid
ran around the room with his nappy off.
And poop on his hands.
Marvellous thing, memory, isn’t it?)
Why not Mr Happy?
Surely he must have visited me once?
Did you bring him through on the way out,
like you brought the others
That while, that short while,
When you’d tuck me in
before going off to work for the night?
Or wherever it was you went
when you lost the job
and the bills mounted up
above the kitchen cabinets.
Or was Mr Happy one lie too many
for you, even then?
(prev. pub. by The Haven)
DEAD’S ARMY
The show is called Dad's Army.
They still re-run it almost every weekend on the BBC.
It's about a group of mostly old geezers
Who can't be called up for service in World War II
Due to their infirmity.
And we used to watch it when it was on.
And we used to play the game.
Because she loved being superior to the dead.
Because Arthur Lowe might have been great on stage,
And John Le Mesurier might have been in every British film of note,
And Arnold Ridley might have written "The Ghost Train",
And James Beck, the youngest to cork it,
Might have had such potential as a future star,
But they were dead.
She would point them out when they appeared on screen.
They were dead.
Whatever they wanted in life,
It was gone.
It was done.
They were done.
And she was there, so many years later,
On the sofa under the tartan blanket,
Wild-eyed on the Voddy,
Pointing at the screen when they appeared,
Each one,
And giving us the mantra,
In the same way she'd do the "switching off" mantra
Every night,
With the oven, and the light switches, and every switch in the house,
Three, four, five times over:
"Off, off, off, off, off."
But, of course, in this case:
"Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead."
And I would join in.
I was eight or nine or ten,
And I would join in,
Because I was taught to feel superior to the dead.
Because, if nothing else, that is what she was.
My mother.
I can't watch Dad's Army any more.
It reminds me of the dead.
(prev. pub. by The Haven)
The show is called Dad's Army.
They still re-run it almost every weekend on the BBC.
It's about a group of mostly old geezers
Who can't be called up for service in World War II
Due to their infirmity.
And we used to watch it when it was on.
And we used to play the game.
Because she loved being superior to the dead.
Because Arthur Lowe might have been great on stage,
And John Le Mesurier might have been in every British film of note,
And Arnold Ridley might have written "The Ghost Train",
And James Beck, the youngest to cork it,
Might have had such potential as a future star,
But they were dead.
She would point them out when they appeared on screen.
They were dead.
Whatever they wanted in life,
It was gone.
It was done.
They were done.
And she was there, so many years later,
On the sofa under the tartan blanket,
Wild-eyed on the Voddy,
Pointing at the screen when they appeared,
Each one,
And giving us the mantra,
In the same way she'd do the "switching off" mantra
Every night,
With the oven, and the light switches, and every switch in the house,
Three, four, five times over:
"Off, off, off, off, off."
But, of course, in this case:
"Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead."
And I would join in.
I was eight or nine or ten,
And I would join in,
Because I was taught to feel superior to the dead.
Because, if nothing else, that is what she was.
My mother.
I can't watch Dad's Army any more.
It reminds me of the dead.
(prev. pub. by The Haven)
YES, THE ROBOTS ARE DANCING IN THE UNCANNY VALLEY, AND THEY’VE GOT THEIR GROOVE ON, AND I CAN SEE WHY THAT DISTURBS YOU, BUT IT’S GOING TO TAKE A DAMN SIGHT MORE TO CONVINCE ME
You’ll have seen, won’t you, those Boston Dynamics videos with the robots dancing?
‘Course you will. Steve’s retweeted them. Bob has too. And if Bob’s seen something on the net,
That means it’s properly viral,
‘Cos Bob barely notices the dew drop on the end of his nose,
Or whether he’s got trousers on today. Or not.
And you’ll have been encouraged to think, “Oh, robots dancing! We’re properly in the 21st century now. No more Stiff-legged geezers in cardboard tubes sprayed silver.
No more arms-outstretched, Frankenstein’s monster, Metropolis knock-off wannabes.
These fellas can dance. These fellas can jive. These fellas can Get Down on the dancefloor.
How very human.
How very uncanny valley.
What will they do next?
Move in on your significant other?
Lean up on the pillows as you come in, one night, having provided the kind of thorough satisfaction you never Could, and all with a robotic smile like something from Futurama?”
You’ll have been encouraged to think this.
You’ll be thinking of replicants and shady takeovers of the entire world
And all the B-movie rest of it.
Because the robots can dance.
But I’m not so easily convinced.
Because, you see, yeah they can dance but how many humans can?
When people say they’re so human-like,
What they mean is, they’re like about 0.5% of us.
The show-offs.
The ones we don’t much like anyway.
Because they can do so easily what we cannot.
No. If your Boston Dynamics lot want to creep me out, take me to the uncanny valley,
They need to do a damn sight more than that.
First time I see a robot in saggy tracksuit bottoms, scratching its arse, hefting a litre of cheap plonk in a paper bag,
That’s when they’ll freak me out.
That’s when I’ll know that they’ve begun to understand how to be human.
(prev. pub. by Little Old Lady Comedy)
_______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
A writer is working when he’s staring out of the window.
—Burton Rascoe
_______________________
—Medusa, thanking British poet Mike Hickman for dropping by the Kitchen today with his unique poetry! (Word for today is “flatuosity”.)
You’ll have seen, won’t you, those Boston Dynamics videos with the robots dancing?
‘Course you will. Steve’s retweeted them. Bob has too. And if Bob’s seen something on the net,
That means it’s properly viral,
‘Cos Bob barely notices the dew drop on the end of his nose,
Or whether he’s got trousers on today. Or not.
And you’ll have been encouraged to think, “Oh, robots dancing! We’re properly in the 21st century now. No more Stiff-legged geezers in cardboard tubes sprayed silver.
No more arms-outstretched, Frankenstein’s monster, Metropolis knock-off wannabes.
These fellas can dance. These fellas can jive. These fellas can Get Down on the dancefloor.
How very human.
How very uncanny valley.
What will they do next?
Move in on your significant other?
Lean up on the pillows as you come in, one night, having provided the kind of thorough satisfaction you never Could, and all with a robotic smile like something from Futurama?”
You’ll have been encouraged to think this.
You’ll be thinking of replicants and shady takeovers of the entire world
And all the B-movie rest of it.
Because the robots can dance.
But I’m not so easily convinced.
Because, you see, yeah they can dance but how many humans can?
When people say they’re so human-like,
What they mean is, they’re like about 0.5% of us.
The show-offs.
The ones we don’t much like anyway.
Because they can do so easily what we cannot.
No. If your Boston Dynamics lot want to creep me out, take me to the uncanny valley,
They need to do a damn sight more than that.
First time I see a robot in saggy tracksuit bottoms, scratching its arse, hefting a litre of cheap plonk in a paper bag,
That’s when they’ll freak me out.
That’s when I’ll know that they’ve begun to understand how to be human.
(prev. pub. by Little Old Lady Comedy)
_______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
A writer is working when he’s staring out of the window.
—Burton Rascoe
_______________________
—Medusa, thanking British poet Mike Hickman for dropping by the Kitchen today with his unique poetry! (Word for today is “flatuosity”.)
There was a Mike Hickman from York,
who ate all his meals with a spork…
(And I never thought I’d get to use the word, “spork” in a poem! If you live long enough….)
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—
and collaborations are welcome.
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—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
