The Poets Hand Cart

The Poets Hand Cart



William was patting the blind ewe, nobly, for no good reason. ‘Thee, Royal Wee,’ he said to this as his toupee slipped into the here and now alongside a pill made from opium, saffron, castor, ambergris, musk and nutmeg. His writing to-date amounted to nothing, unless he could mix the audience with the 17th century home ready medical kit of today’s streets: ‘Simple remedy formula for MILD COUGH [sic]: Thin boiled starch - 2 ounces; Laudanum - 50 drops; Use as an injection when conscious.’



Work for William was now a head-ache after reading the words on Tommy Syndenham's grave tablet: ‘Of all the remedies it has pleased almighty God to give man to relieve his suffering; none is so universal and so efficacious as opium.’



The Tax was less than a bottle Gin, and the winters were mild, until Harrison acted out a role portraying the character ‘envy.’ Toward his curtain call the news spread to the dangers on Britain’s streets. The prison dwellers were now educating themselves with hallucinogenic drugs, search engines, and sharpened tooth brushes. There was nothing that the police could do to stop the remedial: Tuck-socked urchins had found a bag for life full of electroshock weapons in the mess hall bin. Time was now the only issue.

I looked up, as I began to write.  I wondered, how would you kill some-one with a stun gun? The thought stayed in my mind, but not solely, as I looked higher up! I decided it was time for a wash or two; the spoon was still sticky with the remnants of yesterday’s monotony, and Sunderland’s brick dust.



                                                                                                       Sinking back on the couch I surveyed all that lay before me. The black cat’s had scored an own goal, and the dead poets society had gained another member.