Dear readers of my blog, also known as friends
I didn't post a poem yesterday. I'm very disappointed in myself, but in my defence, I HAD given up my dream of becoming a writer after one too many let downs (it's been the week from Satan's arsehole, NOT EVEN KIDDING), so trying to write a poem just felt indecent. However, I woke up this morning and decided I wasn't quite ready to let the dream die. SO I'VE WRITTEN A POEM AGAIN FOR TODAY!
I'll just tack an extra day on at the end of the challenge to make up for the indiscretion. This is an older poem that has been completely reworked for the modern era. And also because people who read it first time round said it was too balls-out weird to make any sense. This one will also be dedicated to a good friend of mine, because she was one of those people who read it first, and also just because she's awesome.
Talk my advice folks, live slow, die old. PEACE OUT.
Bearwood: An Introduction
Upon arriving in Bearwood, I found the place strange and myself strange in it. The train pulled away like a disillusioned lover and I stood obtuse in the smoke. After several months of lobbying, a busboy was elected to handle my trousseau.
The Bearwood Arms lies between two classic eras of history. I was shown to an attic room by a small curse of a man called Tripe McKenna. He told me he had known my father, when my father was not more than a chilly, moor-wandering whippet.
Three days later The Captain arrived at my door dressed as a piñata shaped like an old naval captain. “Warum bist du hier?” he asked. I handed over the advert I had nursed from the paper: “Bearwood – Professional person wanted, must have own organs. Time travellers need not apply.”
His moustache billowed. It was made up of gaunt Edwardian ghosts, each one locked there by an earthly woe. “Follow me please,” he said, leading me through the dance of a lifetime. As we krumped across the village green, I smelt hazelnuts on the air and life was good.
In the post office, Mrs Gherkin looked me up and down with her cold, obese eyes. “And she’s never travelled through time, you say?” she asked. “No ma’am,” The Captain told her. She went to the oven and took out a key.
“You’ll be staying with the train driver. He has an unhelpful disposition but you shan’t go wrong with his knowledge of the Bearwood catacombs. The grass has been telling tales this past lambing season; too many heads break the neck, if you catch my drift?”
I hadn’t a clue what she meant so I reached into my case, took out a defaced copy of The Anubis Gates and a garrotte wire and laid them on the counter. Mrs Gherkin smiled, revealing not teeth, but minute hula dancers hung from her gums in tiny cages. “They like you,” she said.
And with that I secured my position as the Bearwood Mystery Solver.