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
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| Stuart Best - A non-artist's impression |
