I met this poet, see. She was chewing the end of a pencil and seemed absorbed in the process. Maybe modern-day poets of the computerized variety, still keep pencils for the purposes of chewing. Well, you couldn’t get the same sort of satisfaction from chewing on a tablet, or whatever. Anyway, back to the poet in question. She was absorbed, as I said, and even though I was in her direct line of vision, she showed not one trace of recognition of this fact.
Now, if she had been of the ordinary sort of bird that I usually rub shoulders with, then I assure you I wouldn’t have tarried, but I did. She was sporting a picture of Stalin, with the legend beneath: ‘Stalin for King and KKK.’ I knew she was a poet, or was interested in poetry from the massive tome she was using as a foot-rest.
I’ve always thought of poets of whatever hue as a fairly gormless bunch. Usually, they can’t get out of their own way. Universally, they were spotty, unhealthy specimens of man or womanhood, or that was what I thought they would be.
Well, just think, ‘wandering lonely as a cloud’ or some similar crap will sorta induce this kind of thinking in ‘right-thinking’ people. I mean, you don’t see, or at least hear of Ku Klux Klan members mouthing off this shit. No, too many dusky invaders to repel to waste time in this short life.
Actually, I have a wee confession to make before I go on, I did compose a poem in tribute to my beloved KKK, or a member of it. Yes, I know, a moment of weakness. That’s what this love crap will do to you, you starting spouting the most god-awful shit.
I met her on a gun-range where-in she was machine-gunning a whole pile of effigies of blackies. It was then, love, at first sight, witnessing this enthusiastic manifestation of feminine machismo. Or I should call it perhaps, femismo. Doesn’t have the same impact, does it? She was a little taller than me, well quite a bit taller in fact. Also, as I’m into confession mode at the moment, I wear heels. You know, HEELS! Thingys that lift me up, and fit inside my thick shoes. Phew, I’m glad I got that off my chest! As I said, she was still taller by many inches than me, still, I’m not in the dwarf category, well not quite, I’m five foot and a quarter inch.
My love, that’s what she was to me, still towered above me. She was captain of a KKK sponsored basketball team and was the most feared player in the league. You can see why I would be attracted to her at once, but was it ever reciprocated I found it hard to tell? She assured me many times that she wasn’t making fun of me when she used me as her ventriloquist dummy at social functions. She would paint my face black and come out with the most outrageously funny jokes that I often fell off her knee with laughing too hard. One event, I even broke a leg when I hit the stage, but I still couldn’t stop laughing. But did she love me, I never found out. I somehow doubt it, as she had my face tattooed black, and I became the ‘token’ black of the KKK, for a time. I didn’t know whether to feel honoured by their attention, or fearful that they might during some alcoholic festivity, forget that I was sort of one of them, and hang me as a sorta ‘token’ black hanging. For my own safety’s sake, I had to absent myself from their presence many times because I developed ulcers. My quack asked me if I had been under any stress lately, and if I had, I’d better do something about it, or else he’d have my stomach out of my innards before I could say ‘God loves the KKK.’
But to totally come clean, I’d better tell you the poem I wrote to ‘my’ love. It’s called:
A Heartfelt Plea. Start cringing now!
If I’d only been blessed with a big chopper
Everything would have been so sweet
Then I’m sure she’d have let me ahop her
And then would have been swept off her feet.
But God has not seen fit to endow me
With a monster of which I am proud
But he made me a shrimp that will just pee
And make my friend’s laughter so loud.
So, my poem is really a heart plea
To him in the air, or somewhere
To add me a bundle of inches
So I can service my darling up there.
I still harbour a love for my giantess that so dominated my life for a while, even if she ever loved me at all. You may say the ‘break-up’ came when I was riding pillion on her Harley and she lifted me off of this back seat and threw me in a nearby ditch to make way for a box of white sheets that she was going to make into robes. I didn’t protest, which would have been useless anyway, as the tribe had high-tailed it to an evangelical church to pray for a leader that would erect walls to keep undesirables out.
I spent a lot of time at another tattoo parlour getting the blackness removed from my face, and with the special whitening process, I could have passed for Michael Jackson, that is if he was still around.
I might as well get another confession off my chest while I’m at it. And I guess, that this little confession gives a clue to what transpired later with the, what I call, ‘my StalinKu poet’.
For a while, we had functioned reasonably well, not as a couple, but as a pair. It turned out that poetry was a peripheral interest of hers, used only to get her message across sometimes. She really didn’t have the heart of a poet; she was for action; not mooning.
Anyway, to this confession of mine. I think I must have had a psychotic break because why I would take my meagre frame into fearful treading angels territory, I cannot imagine now. However, I did! My allegiance to that particular Nazi viewpoint of selectiveness had definitely waned into its antithesis after the literal and metaphorical dumping of myself so ignominiously.
Every KKK get-together is followed by sexual licentiousness and activity, both of the hetero and homo-variety. I snuck into their Southern headquarters one moonless night and spiked their bulk supply of KY jelly with very fine glass powder. I would say that not much sleep was granted them after their encounters that night. I would have preferred it to have been like that very old limerick which had the lines; “he filled his ass, with broken glass, and circumcised the skipper.”
I didn’t wait around for the outcome. It provided me with a satisfactory ending to both my temporary psychotic state and my enchantment with a psychotic organisation.
Whilst distancing myself from the possibility of retribution I met a real poet! She was as black as the K,s were white. She wasn’t a shiny black, but black as the darkest night. My fondness for her is on a platonic footing at present. I’ve to accept that. And although I am one of smaller statured men that you may meet, I have an enormous randy optimism radiating from me. Or I think I do.
There has been no sense of disorientation with myself of any sort that has prevented me from embracing a totally different hue in partners as well as a different philosophical concept of how life should be.
My new friend is also a computer buff. She is able to walk around the programs of a computer like Martha Stewart walks around the kitchen. She has been able to flood the networks with the “provable documents” that showed that Stalin was once a fully-fledged, and paid-up member of the highest order of the KKK. She showed a string of payments coming from Communist coffers, and also correspondence from grandmasters effusively thanking him and praying that his reign and regime would go on for a long time.
Beta, for that, is her name - she changed it to that as she considered she was still under development - knew that what she was doing was quite ludicrous, and even silly, but as she said, “what the hell”.
We witnessed sterling efforts from the 3Ks to rebut this ‘information’, but the mockery that issued forth from all the different media formats was very gratifying. I think, possibly, that future efforts along this line would do more to undermine any kind of sanctimonious doctrine foisted upon humanity.
I’m still short, in stature that is. With the new love in my life, we sometimes gambol innocently over meadows and along beaches, as befitting ‘real’ poets. She towers over me, but much less so than my former ‘beau.’ She is very feisty, and threatens to get my tattoo renewed, “and in all its darkened glory.”
I’m not sure if she was smiling as she said it, or should I seek to be a giant among the ‘Little People?’
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Real poets represent! :)
Ah, yes, Rhondalise, but you have a much more lyrical touch than my 'street urchin' ways.
Remember that even the excellent Oliver Twist was once a street urchin, Len!
The writing style reflected the character's tone really well! It really helped build the sense of the story!
Thank you. It was all a bit of a giggle and I did have fun with an outrageous subject.