This Island of Goons and Hot Air

 

     I dreamed I was a cabbie,

Driving Spike home from war,

And I dared not bore his genius

With comedy of my own,

And then the comedy left,

 

     I glanced and looked,

And looked again at this man

Inside my mirror,

His eyes alive in distant place

And filled with utter terror,

He never gave an address,

Just told me there and then to drive,

So I took him to the countryside

Where he could hear the voice of birds,

     He glanced my way

Between his tears,

And smiled tiredly,

And took a hip flask

From his pocket

And offered evenly,

 

     I stopped the cab,

Got outside and without talking,

Offered open door,

He looked so pale

And lonely I wished

I could have offered more,

The engine ceased,

Only crows and rooks

Throated their concerns,

He raised a leg and farted thus,

And remarked that he had worms,

     Perplexed I stood

And swore his ambience could kill,

He took the flask upon his lips,

And drank another gill,

 

     ‘So tell me Spike,

Just what the fuck,

What is it all done for?

Why make of men

An animal when peace

Be our only call?’

 

     Spike stepped off the ambulance,

And opened double doors,

Took me through the hospital

And placed me on the ward,

He helped me from the wheelchair

And placed me on the bed,

Had my stomach pumped so hard

But couldn’t relieve my head,

He tells me read some works or two

And think not of the past,

And passed what he called comedy

And pats me on the heart,

I asked if they’re his own works

He says they’re even better,

They’re writ by monks high on acid

Many centuries ago,

 

     I took a look,

A hard back book

With cross upon the cover,

A book he said so full of wit

It’ll even make you blubber,

     But Spike,

I says confused,

This be the holy bible,

He leans close and says to me,

Those monks were very clever,

And as for war continued he

Without a bloody pause,

There’ll never be

One human here who can

Justify its cause,

     He farts again

And I did swoon

Then opened from the dream,

And learned that dear ole Spike

Was tortured thus,

By farts and bloody worms.

 

     My stomach pumped

And so did heart,

And I cried a tear or two,

For everyone caught

Within the room because,

There were no bloody windows.

 

All the best Spike, you are missed!

 

Michael J Waite 21st February 2014.