Mike Hickman
—Poetry by Mike Hickman, York, England
—Public Domain Artwork
THE THEORY OF NAMES
He has, and he’ll tell you,
his “Theory of Names”.
What Steve “means”, for example,
or Dave or Julian
or Trevor
or Imelda.
Christopher: he had an uncle by that name,
and a half-arsed therapist once, too.
And then there’s that miserable pseud of a Dr. Who.
You’ve got to watch for them, he’ll say.
Always “up themselves”, they are.
And he’ll smile, secure in the Opinion.
So secure, in fact, that he’ll hold forth some more,
he’ll challenge all comers,
to give him a name he
doesn’t have a rule for.
Wendys—oh, they’re weak, passive aggressive, too.
Sallys—oh, you’ve got to watch for them,
they’ll have the knife in before your back is turned.
And as for Jennys…
Well, run for the hills.
Unless they’ve already taken them for themselves,
beach towel on deckchair,
faster than a Kraut tourist.
His name? His name? You dare ask for his?
Well, you’ve been listening, haven’t you?
He’s given you no choice, after all.
What do you reckon he ought to be called?
(prev. pub. by Neuro Logical)
DREAM UPON WAKING
What if you knew that the dream is only a dream upon waking?
The night’s stories post-hoc assembled
from the first fragments of consciousness,
from the returning of the light and the regaining of the senses?
Everywhere you’ve been and all the time you’ve been away
invented in the slightest seconds of reboot;
non-memory rewritten, non-existence papered-over with
an illusion that you’ve been somewhere
and the story has continued,
when—in truth—there’s been no you and no story
and no dreams at all in those absent hours.
What if you knew that for sure?
Should that scare or comfort when contemplating the deeper sleep?
That we need to be conscious to be conscious of ourselves and what we’ve been?
That non-conscious means no self to dream, no past to haunt and no future to fear?
What might you do then with the moments to come upon waking?
(prev. pub. by Fevers of the Mind)
What if you knew that the dream is only a dream upon waking?
The night’s stories post-hoc assembled
from the first fragments of consciousness,
from the returning of the light and the regaining of the senses?
Everywhere you’ve been and all the time you’ve been away
invented in the slightest seconds of reboot;
non-memory rewritten, non-existence papered-over with
an illusion that you’ve been somewhere
and the story has continued,
when—in truth—there’s been no you and no story
and no dreams at all in those absent hours.
What if you knew that for sure?
Should that scare or comfort when contemplating the deeper sleep?
That we need to be conscious to be conscious of ourselves and what we’ve been?
That non-conscious means no self to dream, no past to haunt and no future to fear?
What might you do then with the moments to come upon waking?
(prev. pub. by Fevers of the Mind)
RETURNING TO THE REAL WORLD
It was meant to be…come on, then, what exactly?
A spur to my recovery? An inspiration?
To have said it at all, you must have thought it was helpful,
unless, of course, it was said because you don’t believe,
you can’t believe that what you’ve been told is true.
I’ve been there before—when that drama teacher Dalton
back in secondary school
told the class that he’s not unwell and “there’s nothing wrong with him”
while I was taken off for ECGs for palpitations
and put on pills for people four times my age.
But let’s forget him—that’s years ago now, long enough for me to have thought I was over it,
even though that’s turned out not to be true at all.
It was meant to be…I suppose you’d say “taken innocently”;
“No offense meant”, as people say when they sharpen their claws
and go for the jugular.
It was meant to be…a sign that I was valued?
That my absence was noted and that you wanted me back?
But that presumes that what happened wasn’t life-changing,
that it wouldn’t take time to get over,
as happened when you were ill yourself once—or are we to forget that?
It was meant to be…and I think this might be worst of all…
a throw-away remark, something to say instead of the usual
“how much longer will he be off?” and “what kind of prognosis are they giving now?”
But, for God’s sake, really, to ask it at all,
when the cause has been noted—“chronic stress and overwork”,
and the consequences have been so severe…
Well, from where I am, which, I know now, you don’t understand, you can’t see,
all I can think is maybe neither of us are there…
Maybe neither of us exist in the real world.
(prev. pub. by the Daily Drunk)
WHY THESE WORDS?
Why these words, why their hold
still, after so many years
left unattended in their drawer
dusty and unread?
Why do I come back to these?
They don’t describe who I am now
or what has become of me.
Like the silent third panel in a Schulz cartoon
they show the pause
between youthful innocence
and the unexpected punchline of adulthood.
They’re the breath between thought and action
when so much unsaid could have been brought forth
And before certainty and circumstances swept thought and dreams away.
Potential never spoken
And possibility unenacted
They’re a vision of Self
Before Self became concrete.
Their naiveté disgusts as much as fascinates.
Drawing me back to their vision.
Do I seriously think I can begin again from here?
Would I want to, even if I could,
knowing where they finally led?
Why these words in the silence that has fallen?
Why these?
(prev. pub. by Safe and Sound Press)
Why these words, why their hold
still, after so many years
left unattended in their drawer
dusty and unread?
Why do I come back to these?
They don’t describe who I am now
or what has become of me.
Like the silent third panel in a Schulz cartoon
they show the pause
between youthful innocence
and the unexpected punchline of adulthood.
They’re the breath between thought and action
when so much unsaid could have been brought forth
And before certainty and circumstances swept thought and dreams away.
Potential never spoken
And possibility unenacted
They’re a vision of Self
Before Self became concrete.
Their naiveté disgusts as much as fascinates.
Drawing me back to their vision.
Do I seriously think I can begin again from here?
Would I want to, even if I could,
knowing where they finally led?
Why these words in the silence that has fallen?
Why these?
(prev. pub. by Safe and Sound Press)
MR OXYGEN
Mr Oxygen told us in the meeting, “Money is oxygen, without it you can’t breathe.”
And he wanted us to be impressed with his insight,
As he flashed his Rolex and his diamond tie-pin sparkled.
But we were waiting for there to be more,
Because there had to be more,
Because he had been taken onto the board to give us more,
If not money, then means for us to gain money,
Because he had been so successful himself,
With his house in Dorset and his Alfa Romeo and his—dear God—were those sock suspenders?
He was like someone had taken Niles Crane, removed the charm, and distilled him into a middle-aged British Beetroot.
How could we fail to learn from his mighty achievements?
But what we got was, “Money is oxygen, without it you can’t breathe,”
And a general sense that he thought this might never have occurred to us.
That look in his eyes when he said it like we might want to give it a go.
Go on, give those lungs a work-out; you don’t know what you’ve been missing.
That’s what we got from Mr Oxygen.
That, and the son at Oxford,
And the daughter with her own practice in Harley Street,
And the seat in the Lords that was going to be his one day soon,
And the red face that looked, ironically, like he’d been holding his own breath for decades,
So perhaps he ought not to hold out too much hope on that last ambition.
At least, no more hope than we have in him.
(prev. pub. by Little Old Lady Comedy)
Mr Oxygen told us in the meeting, “Money is oxygen, without it you can’t breathe.”
And he wanted us to be impressed with his insight,
As he flashed his Rolex and his diamond tie-pin sparkled.
But we were waiting for there to be more,
Because there had to be more,
Because he had been taken onto the board to give us more,
If not money, then means for us to gain money,
Because he had been so successful himself,
With his house in Dorset and his Alfa Romeo and his—dear God—were those sock suspenders?
He was like someone had taken Niles Crane, removed the charm, and distilled him into a middle-aged British Beetroot.
How could we fail to learn from his mighty achievements?
But what we got was, “Money is oxygen, without it you can’t breathe,”
And a general sense that he thought this might never have occurred to us.
That look in his eyes when he said it like we might want to give it a go.
Go on, give those lungs a work-out; you don’t know what you’ve been missing.
That’s what we got from Mr Oxygen.
That, and the son at Oxford,
And the daughter with her own practice in Harley Street,
And the seat in the Lords that was going to be his one day soon,
And the red face that looked, ironically, like he’d been holding his own breath for decades,
So perhaps he ought not to hold out too much hope on that last ambition.
At least, no more hope than we have in him.
(prev. pub. by Little Old Lady Comedy)
MR PEACH BELIEVES
Mr Peach believes that we will remember him,
he tells us as such, one lesson, when handing out the sheets.
He tells us he gets stopped on the street
by former pupils, keen to resume the acquaintance,
keen to remind him that he’d once told them the same.
Thing is, though, it’s 25 years later, or thereabouts,
and I cannot remember even what the man looks like,
let alone the content of any of his lessons,
and the only thing that sticks in my head
is what he told his Year 1s that day,
about his being remembered.
How sad.
(prev. pub. by Neuro Logical)
Mr Peach believes that we will remember him,
he tells us as such, one lesson, when handing out the sheets.
He tells us he gets stopped on the street
by former pupils, keen to resume the acquaintance,
keen to remind him that he’d once told them the same.
Thing is, though, it’s 25 years later, or thereabouts,
and I cannot remember even what the man looks like,
let alone the content of any of his lessons,
and the only thing that sticks in my head
is what he told his Year 1s that day,
about his being remembered.
How sad.
(prev. pub. by Neuro Logical)
THE WAITING FOR DEATH STARTS IN PIZZA HUT
Somewhere between the garlic bread supreme
and the arrival of the stuffed-crust meat feast,
punctuated by a solitary visit to the endless refills of the vaguely flavoured,
the waiting for death begins.
He could talk, perhaps, but there’s nothing
new to talk about, nothing new to say to her anyway,
that he hasn’t bitten back in processed cheese before.
She could talk too, but how many years has it been? And hasn’t it all been said?
And isn’t it all just repeating ourselves now? And aren’t we locked in enough to the jobs and
the kids and the house and the endless decades until we expire?
Maybe they hope that the onslaught of calories will hasten their demise,
maybe that explains the thoughtless conveyor belt shovelling,
or maybe the mmms and noms that they hardly believe are provided, with the mastication,
to mask the lack of conversation?
Maybe they know the silence is longer now than the gap between two cheap courses
served by a waiter with a face the perfect advert for pizza?
Maybe they realise there’s years of this to come, before one or other of them finally breaks
the stand-off and becomes the ultimate in take-outs?
Maybe that’s why, sated far beyond comfort, but mindful they don’t want to wait for much
longer, they order the silent ice cream factory too?
(prev. pub. by the Daily Drunk)
Somewhere between the garlic bread supreme
and the arrival of the stuffed-crust meat feast,
punctuated by a solitary visit to the endless refills of the vaguely flavoured,
the waiting for death begins.
He could talk, perhaps, but there’s nothing
new to talk about, nothing new to say to her anyway,
that he hasn’t bitten back in processed cheese before.
She could talk too, but how many years has it been? And hasn’t it all been said?
And isn’t it all just repeating ourselves now? And aren’t we locked in enough to the jobs and
the kids and the house and the endless decades until we expire?
Maybe they hope that the onslaught of calories will hasten their demise,
maybe that explains the thoughtless conveyor belt shovelling,
or maybe the mmms and noms that they hardly believe are provided, with the mastication,
to mask the lack of conversation?
Maybe they know the silence is longer now than the gap between two cheap courses
served by a waiter with a face the perfect advert for pizza?
Maybe they realise there’s years of this to come, before one or other of them finally breaks
the stand-off and becomes the ultimate in take-outs?
Maybe that’s why, sated far beyond comfort, but mindful they don’t want to wait for much
longer, they order the silent ice cream factory too?
(prev. pub. by the Daily Drunk)
THE INFANTILIST EXCLAMATION MARK IN “SUCCESS!”
HAS ME DOUBTING OUTLOOK’S SINCERITY—AND MY
EVERY ACHIEVEMENT IN LIFE
It’s such a simple thing,
Except it isn’t, because I always forget my phone.
It’s always under the sofa cushion or amongst the unwashed pots in the kitchen,
When it comes to the Two-Stage verification to get into my own email.
“Enter the code beginning with 2,” it says this time,
After I’ve discovered that I don’t have my glasses,
And have gone looking for my glasses,
And I realise again that the removal of specs from face
Also results in near total loss of memory.
“Enter the code beginning with 2,” it says,
To let me into my own email,
Because it doesn’t believe I am me,
Maybe because it has read my messages,
And struggles to square the blinking bewildered befuddlement
Squinting at the text on the Nokia screen
With the presumed professional whose account it is.
“Enter the code beginning with 2,” I say,
Eventually finding it on the screen,
Like it’s a Magic Eye puzzle I’m solving,
Like I haven’t done this every time since they introduced the Two-Stage thing,
Like I haven’t forgotten every single time,
Locking myself out more than once
And being no worse off for it,
Because at least then Outlook doesn’t patronise me.
Like it does now, when I enter the code beginning with 2
And, for such a tiny, insignificant, not-even-achievement,
I get the word that cuts the strings to my soul,
And the exclamation mark that tells me it is taking the proverbial.
“Success” is bad enough for achieving nothing,
“Success!” with the infantilist exclamation mark
Lets me know that rather fewer than two-steps are needed to verify me.
(prev. pub. by the Daily Drunk)
HAS ME DOUBTING OUTLOOK’S SINCERITY—AND MY
EVERY ACHIEVEMENT IN LIFE
It’s such a simple thing,
Except it isn’t, because I always forget my phone.
It’s always under the sofa cushion or amongst the unwashed pots in the kitchen,
When it comes to the Two-Stage verification to get into my own email.
“Enter the code beginning with 2,” it says this time,
After I’ve discovered that I don’t have my glasses,
And have gone looking for my glasses,
And I realise again that the removal of specs from face
Also results in near total loss of memory.
“Enter the code beginning with 2,” it says,
To let me into my own email,
Because it doesn’t believe I am me,
Maybe because it has read my messages,
And struggles to square the blinking bewildered befuddlement
Squinting at the text on the Nokia screen
With the presumed professional whose account it is.
“Enter the code beginning with 2,” I say,
Eventually finding it on the screen,
Like it’s a Magic Eye puzzle I’m solving,
Like I haven’t done this every time since they introduced the Two-Stage thing,
Like I haven’t forgotten every single time,
Locking myself out more than once
And being no worse off for it,
Because at least then Outlook doesn’t patronise me.
Like it does now, when I enter the code beginning with 2
And, for such a tiny, insignificant, not-even-achievement,
I get the word that cuts the strings to my soul,
And the exclamation mark that tells me it is taking the proverbial.
“Success” is bad enough for achieving nothing,
“Success!” with the infantilist exclamation mark
Lets me know that rather fewer than two-steps are needed to verify me.
(prev. pub. by the Daily Drunk)
CAPTAIN IRONY IS HAPPY
Captain Irony is happy with me
for giving him everything he wanted
in one go, in one decision, in one mistake.
And then in all the others that followed.
“I’ll be a new person,” I said,
“with a new person,” I said,
and he listened, silently, before saying, “How interesting,
How very interesting that you should say that.”
“I’ll be what I couldn’t be before,” I said
and Captain Irony’s smile broadened,
and he replied, “I hear you,” before whispering,
“But I’m not so sure that you do.”
“There’ll be no rows, there’ll be no tension,
every day will be perfect, you just see,” I said.
And I knew it was desperate bargaining,
and his face told me that he knew that too.
But I couldn’t be stopped.
“That’s how it’s going to be,” I said.
“Marvellous,” he clapped, “I’ll be back to check up on you in a few months.
You knock yourself out.”
And I did, and he did too.
Check up on me, I mean.
Right at the point when it all exploded,
and my impossible demands proved
as impossible as I’d known them to be.
“I’m the same person,” I said, shaking my head,
“only I pent it all up, clamped down on myself so hard,
that I left myself nowhere to go.”
But Captain Irony’s happy with that,
the only one not disappointed I’d proved myself so wrong.
“It really doesn’t work if I tell you,” he said.
“I don’t even need to say I told you so.
If you hadn’t noticed, the clue’s in the name.”
(prev. pub. by Sledgehammer)
Captain Irony is happy with me
for giving him everything he wanted
in one go, in one decision, in one mistake.
And then in all the others that followed.
“I’ll be a new person,” I said,
“with a new person,” I said,
and he listened, silently, before saying, “How interesting,
How very interesting that you should say that.”
“I’ll be what I couldn’t be before,” I said
and Captain Irony’s smile broadened,
and he replied, “I hear you,” before whispering,
“But I’m not so sure that you do.”
“There’ll be no rows, there’ll be no tension,
every day will be perfect, you just see,” I said.
And I knew it was desperate bargaining,
and his face told me that he knew that too.
But I couldn’t be stopped.
“That’s how it’s going to be,” I said.
“Marvellous,” he clapped, “I’ll be back to check up on you in a few months.
You knock yourself out.”
And I did, and he did too.
Check up on me, I mean.
Right at the point when it all exploded,
and my impossible demands proved
as impossible as I’d known them to be.
“I’m the same person,” I said, shaking my head,
“only I pent it all up, clamped down on myself so hard,
that I left myself nowhere to go.”
But Captain Irony’s happy with that,
the only one not disappointed I’d proved myself so wrong.
“It really doesn’t work if I tell you,” he said.
“I don’t even need to say I told you so.
If you hadn’t noticed, the clue’s in the name.”
(prev. pub. by Sledgehammer)
CIRCLE
The circle is drawn in eyeliner on the napkin
And you tell me that is how you see the world; how you see time.
Everywhen, you explain, is a diameter’s width from anywhen.
We’re at three o’clock now, for example, the pair of us, and
You draw the stick figures, one of them waving.
We’ll always be here, you say, even when time moves on.
Even as the hands sweep by…
Even if one of us winds up at nine, the other at half eleven.
We will always be here at three.
And it’s not mad, I assure you, forgetting to worry that you’ve now told me how it ends,
We’ve all got our ways of dealing with impermanence,
With loss,
With moving on before we’re ready because the cogs have their own motion,
And it is all we can do to keep up.
I could explain how I deal with it myself.
I could draw you my own diagram.
But it would just show us here, in this bar, over these drinks,
In these words,
Now.
So very many years later.
(prev. pub. by Sledgehammer)
_________________
Today’s LittleNip:
No one means all he says, and yet very few say all they mean, for words are slippery and thought is viscous,
—Henry Adams, The Education of Henry Adams, 1907)
_________________
Sometimes Doctor, always writer, Mike Hickman (@MikeHicWriter) is from York, England. He has written for Off the Rock Productions (stage and audio), including a 2018 play about Groucho Marx and Erin Fleming. Since 2020 he has been published in Agapanthus (Best of the Net nominated), EllipsisZine, the Bitchin’ Kitsch, the Cabinet of Heed, Sledgehammer, and Red Fez. He is also a regular contributor to the Daily Drunk. Welcome to the Kitchen, Mike, and be sure to hop over the sea to visit the Kitchen from time to time!
Later today (10/16), 6-7pm: Third. Sat. Art Walk in Placerville features Rina Wakefield plus open mic. Toogood Winery, 304 Main St., Placerville. Host: Lara Gularte.
_________________
—Medusa
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Would you like to be a SnakePal?
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Just remember:
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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!
