4 SHORT STORIES (THAT NEVER WON A PRIZE)
1. Ancient Karma
I went to bed at a sensible hour
and when I got up
I killed everybody
who didn't make sense.
The police were quite concerned
despite my dimples.
The national dailies described my casualties
as "moderate" and someone on TV
commended me to my doom.
But during the trial
I offered my senile mother in evidence
and the jury was touched.
They forced the judge to a full confession
and sentenced him to a phrase.
Ironically, the old bag wasn't really my mother.
It was just an old bag I used to carry
my burdens around (call it my kar-ma if you like ha ha).
Anyhow, after that unpleasant incident
I vowed I would deform the world.
2. Johnny Nylon Goes Off on a Blimp
Two great big (b)li(m)ps were in the wild blue
twice upon a timely sky.
One of them disguised as a phenomenon;
the other invisible.
Far below (underground in fact)
several small animals
were being animatedly
vivisected.
Scientists gathered in grave conference
by droves in groves confabulating
their individual concern
relative to their own
particular species.
This was the strange but true setting
in which our hero Johnny Nylon found
himself
the very morning our strange but familiar
story
ends.
And to this day nobody knows for sure
what the (b)li(m)ps
were up to.
3. One Man's Meat
Harrap was terribly annoyed one morning
when he awoke to find that I had had him
for breakfast.
He was nevertheless a fairminded fellow
who knew when he was eaten.
Without a complaint he swallowed his pride
and let me swallow him.
Next on the menu was the Pope.
He didn't really object to the discomfort
through which I was putting him,
but a large number of my catholic friends
began calling me Shylock.
What could I do except humor them,
for weren't they, after all,
a large number of my catholic friends?
One day Watson came into the room
looking absolutely sane.
Like a cat I sprang to his side
and hissed in his ear:
"Watson! Do you notice that the chairs
are talking to one another?
We must sit on them!"
Dear old Watson was taken aback by my impulsiveness.
"But," he gasped, "surely the furniture
isn't gossiping about you?"
"Brillo the duckshit!" I shrieked,
astonishing him completely.
I had no alternative
but to move to a better neighborhood.
Watson begged to be allowed to come with me.
But, difficult as it was, I crippled him
for security reasons.
The very evening I scored a triumph for my country
the Pope reappeared in my drawers.
It was a terribly awkward situation.
"Sorry," I said, "but I just ate."
He fell upon his knees and dripped all over the carpet.
"Surely, surely you have need of a dish fit for a king?"
At this shattering question
I hesitated: "Which king?"
Horror clouded his countenance and rained indignation
on the roof of his dignity.
"There is only ONE king!"
It was there and then that I decided never again
to consort with reality.
4. The Crucial End
Much to the public's disappointment
the world ended on Sunday.
The children did not conceal their dismay.
Their parents spoke to the Mayor
who promptly bade the little bastards
come unto him.
"There has been a serious mistake."
The Mayor's tone was grave.
Nobody coughed.
Meanwhile back in church
the harassed rector led his congregation
in solemn prayer.
The fat altar boy toyed with
his frog's destiny.
"We elected you. Do your job!" the crowd shouted,
restlessly shuffling its feet.
Sweat beaded the Mayor's greasy face
as he slowly held up a Mars bar:
"Miracles are beyind my power," he began again
with more gravity if that were possible,
"but God will not forsake us
in the hour of our greed."
True enough, the clouds parted and lo!
the Sun smiled once more upon the pockmarked face
of the Earth.
Then there arose a universal clamor of thanksgiving
while friend and foe alike greeted each other
in the streets: "Glad t'be alive on Sunday!"
Much to the public's disappointment
the world did not end on Monday.
In fact it began again the very next day
which was Tuesday.
"Maybe next week," the Mayor tried to console the people.
The children did not conceal their dismay.
"NEXT WEEK?" they cried peevishly.
So the Mayor promised them
another half-day at school.
The parents shuffled their feet restlessly.
Meanwhile back in church
the harassed rector was pacifying
his nervous congregation.
The fat altar boy slinked behind the altar
and abused himself.
Not even the Mayor knew what had gone amiss
in the celestial timetable.
"God alone knows!" he cried in sweatbeaded desperation.
The people were far from happy.
"No, no! Not on Sunday! Not AGAIN!"
the older children were saying to each other.
Meanwhile back in church
the nervous congregation was trying to pacify
the harassed rector who, having discovered
jism on his altar, had collapsed
in a paroxysm of guilt.
The police never caught the fat altar boy
for, at this crucial point,
the world finally ended.
1971
