Tag Archives: allegory

Existential Allegory #83

There once was a beggar,

blind from birth,

sat by the city’s gates

who would shout out,

from time to time:

Why are you looking at me?

then one day

a passerby stopped

on hearing the beggar’s cry

and asked

how do you know if someone is looking at you?

the sightless mendicant replied

I’m allowed to guess,aren’t I?

A Tale From The Nursery

In the valley of the idiots

where a half-wit was King,

it was ordered coal-scuttles to be worn

on peoples’ heads when out in public

to prevent them seeing

things as they really are;

The whistling of merry tunes

was also prohibited,

lest joy was spread unannounced

and took others by surprise

who in turn might smile involuntarily

and so give rise to mirth,

and cause questions to be asked

about the edict on the wearing of coal-scuttles.

Author’s Footnote:

This is a companion piece to “The Ban on Straw”.

The Man in the High Tower

Among all the tall towers

there is a man in the

highest tower of all;

a man alone

surveying all that is his,

and most of what he sees

among all the tall towers,

is his;


and power flow from this pinnacle,

this apogee of authority

down,down into the

favellas, barrios, ghettoes,

shanty towns and slums,

to those who hear his voice

relayed by officials, underlings,

acolytes and the vast panoply

of enforcement;

Even from among all the tall towers

they gaze up at

the highest tower of all

and imagine in there

a man alone;

an old man

all alone



of Cancer.

Corpse & The Duke

The carriage alighted outside

his well-appointed townhouse,

whereupon the elegantly attired

Duc de Charlatan stepped forth

jauntily as the carriage door opened;

Yet within the blink of an eye

his aristocratic frame froze,

as if struck by some sudden palsy,

Awash with incredulity

the Duke’s visage barely managed

to utter the refrain,

” I say,you there fellow! be about

your business or else!”

his carved italianate walking stick

pointing accusingly at the object of his ire,

a person prostrate on the ground,

their frame interjected geometrically

twixt the carriage’s door and the front

door to the Duc de Charlatan’s habitation;

Two footmen were despatched with

immediate haste to confront what

seemed to be layers of still-bound

ragged cloth,

” Be on your way or we shall summon

the Constable!”

The directness of their invective

whilst assuaging his excellency’s ire,

had little effect on the person

remaining prostrate on the footpath;

” Why don’t you move silly fellow ?

before I tread on you!” exclaimed the Duke,

Having ascertained the scene for a while,

the Footmen were prompted,

by conscience perhaps,

to inform his excellency

that the person on the ground

was in fact deceased;

” Such churlish effrontery to persons

of higher standing, incommoding one’s

carefully planned morning!”

extemporised the Duke,

to which a passing neighbour nodded sagely,

as they stepped over the cadaver.

Fin de Siecle

Trailing in the wake of Lions,

Hyenas come to feast on the carcass

of someone else’s name;

Shattered windows,

Burned out cars,

Looted Stores,

Toppled statues;

Triumphant Vandal hordes

breaking the gates of Rome,

trampling its glories,

defecating on Temple steps;

Anarchy like lava

spewing from a volcano’s maw

shrouding the days

in its ashen nights

and its silence drowning our screams.

Potato & The Duke

“I don’t recognise that potato!

what is it doing here?”

enquired the perfumed Duc de Charlatan

with ineffable aristocratic mien;

To disturb the quotidian equilibrium

of this pastoral mise-en-scene

with the inclusion of an errant vegetable,

was in the Duc de Charlatan’s estimation

an inexcusable faux-pas traducing

countless centuries of natural order

and its attendant requisite deference;

To impugn the ethereal harmony

of form,subject and proportion

in such a profane manner according,

that is,to his Excellency,

necessitates the perpetrator of this act

once apprehended be subject to

the full penalties that the Law allows,

which the Duc de Charlatan opined,



Locomotive Breath

The rumble of passing trains,

going where they’ve always gone

at times we knew

and could set our watches by,

their metronomic clatter,

their iron rail rhythm

remorselessly bending nature

to their will;

Pressing on through the seasons

the rumble of passing trains;

Unfolding the countryside at

which passengers are staring,

watching and waiting

for their destinations to arrive,

as if by magic,

outside of their carriage windows,

Oblivious to the locomotive’s

kinetic brutality beating down

the miles as houses roll past

like a tracking shot in a film,

where the footage repeats in loops

and in time-less labyrinths

of their own purpose and making

and unmaking and remaking,

till the metal leviathan

heaves its last breath

and sighs contentedly,

at ease,

on time,

at the platform,

where no-one disembarks.

The Putt





these last 3 feet

on the par 4 18th,

this putt for birdie,

this putt for the championship;

464 yards,

1,392 feet

traversed with inimitable ease

leaving just these last 3;

back to the practice putt,



the hole’s diameter expands

then contracts

yet all remains the same;