Day 11: Stuart Best

I've just endured an 11 hour day at work with my friend Karl, to whom I would like to dedicate this poem. He writes poems too by the way, so check him out. Anyway, this sort-of-prose-poem arose from a mishearing, during conversation we having about a batch of soup we were supposed to sell. - K

***

Q: What do you call a soup that is way too thick?

A: Stew, at best

It was in a particularly slimy, silt-like pot

(Pea and spinach)

(Supposedly)

That I first saw Stuart Best

Afraid to examine the swirling sludge

For fear of lethal inhalations

I  had failed to notice the tell tale signs

- Bubbles

- Steam

- The distant sound of a wurlitzer organ playing

That heralded his arrival

Before long however

The fizzing had become more fervent

And my attention could not help but be drawn

To the veritable jacuzzi on the stove top

All of a sudden

The churning green mass erupted

A geyser spout of ooze shot upwards

And as it settled he emerged

Spiralling from the glop

Magnificent

Beaming

Tall dark hair

And crooked teeth gleaming

Not a strand, string or tendril of plant matter clung to him

Despite his evidently vegetative origin

His ceased revolving when his shoulders broke clear

Naked

But for a gaudy bow tie

Red spots on yellow

Slightly too large

Fastened around his neck

He looked me squarely in the eye

Flashed his grin

Tipped his head

And sank once more into the mire

I've seen him once or twice since then

A polite but silent visitor

To the site of that culinary horror

A pot of over-thick soup

Stuart Best - A non-artist's impression