Playing The Fool
Winning Entry by macdonald
Playing The Fool
He was in his early sixties, a retired maths teacher, unmarried, below average height, fastidiously dressed. His greenish, checked tweed suit matched his shirt and a tightly knotted maroon tie matched the handkerchief in a breast pocket which also held two ballpoint pens. We shook hands. He sat down. I had already made up my mind that he wasn’t playing the fool but that’s what his General Practitioner had suggested in a brief referral letter.
‘Tell me about your symptoms,’ I asked. He had brought a hard backed diary with him and opened this to read the entries he’d made. These were long and meticulously detailed so I’ll summarise. For six months he’d been experiencing odd sensations in his legs. Muscle throbbing and twitching, tingling and transient cramps. The symptoms, intermittent at first, had become more frequent. At first he could ease them by standing and stamping his feet and he demonstrated this to me. This manoeuvre had helped for a while, but then he’d had to jog on the spot to get relief, and more recently he’d had to dance.
‘They’re coming on now doctor,’ he said, while I was still ruminating on this information.
‘Can you show me what you do exactly?’ I said. He didn’t need a second invitation and placing his diary and pens on my desk, he stood and began to dance in the consulting room. He held his upper body rigid, arms and hands tight to his side, and began quick, precise stepping movements of his feet and legs. He kept it up for a few minutes, jigging around the small room. During the performance the out-patient clinic nurse, alerted by the rhythmic percussion of his brown brogues on the pine-wood floor came in, closing the door to the waiting area carefully behind her and watching the performance open-mouthed with arms crossed. His pace eventually began to slow.
‘They’ve gone,’ he said as he sat down again. ‘But they’ll be back in a few hours.’
‘How often do you have to dance?’ I asked.
‘Three or four times a day. It’s very embarrassing.’
‘And if you don’t dance?’
‘I have to. I can’t bear not to. The throbbing and spasms just get worse and worse. I can’t sit. I can’t stand or walk. I have to dance.’
I examined him thoroughly but could find no neurological or muscular abnormality. His spine and legs were entirely normal. His reflexes were a little brisk but there was nothing else to find.
The only diagnosis I could reasonably suggest was that he had a severe case of ‘restless legs syndrome’. However, as he continued to sleep well, wasn’t anxious about anything other than his legs, didn’t smoke and already took regular exercise there was little I could suggest by away of a sensible medical intervention. I arranged some blood tests and a spinal scan in view of the brisk reflexes, but wasn’t expecting to find any abnormality. I was just playing for time as all medics do now and then.
The test results were normal, but when he returned to the clinic the symptoms were getting worse.
During our second interview his dancing began again and various nurses and junior doctors came in to watch the ‘performance’. Some shook their heads slowly, mouth's open; others grinned or frowned in puzzlement; a student had to leave the room with her hands covering her face.
We discussed his case, at the multidisciplinary team meeting, that afternoon. There was an even split. Half the staff thought he was playing the fool or had a psychological disorder, the other half a muscle problem. A senior physiotherapist suggested exercise therapy and muscle stretching techniques.
Four weeks passed, but when I next saw him it was obvious the stretching techniques hadn’t worked. He was unshaven, his fingernails dirty, his brogues unpolished. Various stains had ruined his tweed suit. He was wearing a canvas splint on his wrist. He’d tripped and hurt it while ‘dancing’ the day before and attended the emergency department.
‘I can’t go on like this,’ he said, close to tears and now described electric shock sensations in his legs and a feeling as if water was trickling down his shins. People were laughing at him in the supermarket when he danced. He’d had to cancel his annual fishing trip to Scotland with friends and he’d given up his crown green bowling and was having so much difficulty tending the allotment he’d run for thirty years he was thinking of giving that up as well.
I decided to refer him to our local neurologist.
‘She’s the most brilliant colleague I have,’ I said. ‘If anybody can help it’ll be her.’
A few weeks later I received a summary of that consultation.
Dear B.
Thank you for requesting a second opinion on this fascinating case which you have called ‘dancing legs syndrome’. He was a most delightful man and we had a long chat and I thoroughly examined him and like you could find no evidence of any serious physical problem whatsoever. Interestingly his symptoms recurred toward the end of our interview and as you have described he began to dance around the consulting room. I let his Michael Flatley/Riverdance routine go on for about ten seconds, then shouted:
‘STOP!!’ as loudly as I could manage and he immediately stopped and sat down. He mentioned that as soon as I shouted the symptoms eased. As this also established his dancing legs were under voluntary control we agreed that all he needs to do is tell himself firmly to stop dancing and hopefully we have a solution to the problem. Many thanks again for a fascinating referral.
I saw the patient for a final follow up a few weeks later.
‘How are you?’ I said, noting his previous smartness had returned. A new tweed suit, a tightly knotted blue tie and matching handkerchief. Clean shaven again, his brogues polished.
‘Much better doctor. Your colleague was so very kind. The symptoms have almost gone and I’ve got back to bowls and I’m keeping my allotment. I’m so grateful.’
‘You still get the symptoms occasionally then?’
‘Yes but when I feel them coming on all I have to do is stand up and say ‘STOP!’ to myself. I don’t need to shout it out. I just say it to myself. The symptoms go away. The neurologist told me it’s all a question of mind over matter.’
We shook hands. I never saw him again.
He was in his early sixties, a retired maths teacher, unmarried, below average height, fastidiously dressed. His greenish, checked tweed suit matched his shirt and a tightly knotted maroon tie matched the handkerchief in a breast pocket which also held two ballpoint pens. We shook hands. He sat down. I had already made up my mind that he wasn’t playing the fool but that’s what his General Practitioner had suggested in a brief referral letter.
‘Tell me about your symptoms,’ I asked. He had brought a hard backed diary with him and opened this to read the entries he’d made. These were long and meticulously detailed so I’ll summarise. For six months he’d been experiencing odd sensations in his legs. Muscle throbbing and twitching, tingling and transient cramps. The symptoms, intermittent at first, had become more frequent. At first he could ease them by standing and stamping his feet and he demonstrated this to me. This manoeuvre had helped for a while, but then he’d had to jog on the spot to get relief, and more recently he’d had to dance.
‘They’re coming on now doctor,’ he said, while I was still ruminating on this information.
‘Can you show me what you do exactly?’ I said. He didn’t need a second invitation and placing his diary and pens on my desk, he stood and began to dance in the consulting room. He held his upper body rigid, arms and hands tight to his side, and began quick, precise stepping movements of his feet and legs. He kept it up for a few minutes, jigging around the small room. During the performance the out-patient clinic nurse, alerted by the rhythmic percussion of his brown brogues on the pine-wood floor came in, closing the door to the waiting area carefully behind her and watching the performance open-mouthed with arms crossed. His pace eventually began to slow.
‘They’ve gone,’ he said as he sat down again. ‘But they’ll be back in a few hours.’
‘How often do you have to dance?’ I asked.
‘Three or four times a day. It’s very embarrassing.’
‘And if you don’t dance?’
‘I have to. I can’t bear not to. The throbbing and spasms just get worse and worse. I can’t sit. I can’t stand or walk. I have to dance.’
I examined him thoroughly but could find no neurological or muscular abnormality. His spine and legs were entirely normal. His reflexes were a little brisk but there was nothing else to find.
The only diagnosis I could reasonably suggest was that he had a severe case of ‘restless legs syndrome’. However, as he continued to sleep well, wasn’t anxious about anything other than his legs, didn’t smoke and already took regular exercise there was little I could suggest by away of a sensible medical intervention. I arranged some blood tests and a spinal scan in view of the brisk reflexes, but wasn’t expecting to find any abnormality. I was just playing for time as all medics do now and then.
The test results were normal, but when he returned to the clinic the symptoms were getting worse.
During our second interview his dancing began again and various nurses and junior doctors came in to watch the ‘performance’. Some shook their heads slowly, mouth's open; others grinned or frowned in puzzlement; a student had to leave the room with her hands covering her face.
We discussed his case, at the multidisciplinary team meeting, that afternoon. There was an even split. Half the staff thought he was playing the fool or had a psychological disorder, the other half a muscle problem. A senior physiotherapist suggested exercise therapy and muscle stretching techniques.
Four weeks passed, but when I next saw him it was obvious the stretching techniques hadn’t worked. He was unshaven, his fingernails dirty, his brogues unpolished. Various stains had ruined his tweed suit. He was wearing a canvas splint on his wrist. He’d tripped and hurt it while ‘dancing’ the day before and attended the emergency department.
‘I can’t go on like this,’ he said, close to tears and now described electric shock sensations in his legs and a feeling as if water was trickling down his shins. People were laughing at him in the supermarket when he danced. He’d had to cancel his annual fishing trip to Scotland with friends and he’d given up his crown green bowling and was having so much difficulty tending the allotment he’d run for thirty years he was thinking of giving that up as well.
I decided to refer him to our local neurologist.
‘She’s the most brilliant colleague I have,’ I said. ‘If anybody can help it’ll be her.’
A few weeks later I received a summary of that consultation.
Dear B.
Thank you for requesting a second opinion on this fascinating case which you have called ‘dancing legs syndrome’. He was a most delightful man and we had a long chat and I thoroughly examined him and like you could find no evidence of any serious physical problem whatsoever. Interestingly his symptoms recurred toward the end of our interview and as you have described he began to dance around the consulting room. I let his Michael Flatley/Riverdance routine go on for about ten seconds, then shouted:
‘STOP!!’ as loudly as I could manage and he immediately stopped and sat down. He mentioned that as soon as I shouted the symptoms eased. As this also established his dancing legs were under voluntary control we agreed that all he needs to do is tell himself firmly to stop dancing and hopefully we have a solution to the problem. Many thanks again for a fascinating referral.
I saw the patient for a final follow up a few weeks later.
‘How are you?’ I said, noting his previous smartness had returned. A new tweed suit, a tightly knotted blue tie and matching handkerchief. Clean shaven again, his brogues polished.
‘Much better doctor. Your colleague was so very kind. The symptoms have almost gone and I’ve got back to bowls and I’m keeping my allotment. I’m so grateful.’
‘You still get the symptoms occasionally then?’
‘Yes but when I feel them coming on all I have to do is stand up and say ‘STOP!’ to myself. I don’t need to shout it out. I just say it to myself. The symptoms go away. The neurologist told me it’s all a question of mind over matter.’
We shook hands. I never saw him again.
Featured Entry by Freya
Playing the fool
The Jester stumbles, drums a fuming staccato on his thighs and then bursts into hysterical laughter.
A roar passes through the audience. The spectators leap to their feet, their hands shooting high with their lighters. Flames flicker through the murkiness in ghostly quivers. A thunder produced by the hundreds of hands clapping in a unison bolts through his head. He freezes in ecstasy, standing still until the cheering crowd reaches for him and carries him in their arms as if he were their deity.
The shudders of elation that devoured his body, the sheer delight of being one with his audience stayed with him for days, sustaining him in what came after. His best performance ever. His last.
‘Raise, you hog!’ The guard boots him in his ribs and the Jester staggers, bending forward in pain. His whole body aches. A desire to shove away his hair glued by the blood and sweat to his puffy eyes only becomes stronger the moment he remembers his hands are roped. He squints.
‘Stand up, I said. You’ve got a visitor.’
Another punch, this time to his chest. He trips but then pushes himself to stand.
Like the Jester’s guard, the visitor’s green uniform marks his special police status. This one however boasts more stars on the lapel. Is it good or bad? The Jester muses. Does brutality permeate senior ranks as deeply as the lower? The officer, a wiry, bespectacled man of around fifty, isn’t as tall or brawny as the guard. His eyes gleam with intelligence, but coldness lurks in their corners.
‘Sit down, prisoner,’ the officer instructs, and the guard pushes the Jester onto a metal stool in the middle of the interrogation room. The officer perches on a comfortable-looking office chair behind a birch-wood desk separating him from the prisoner. The guard is about to drop to a plastic seat next to the door when the officer commands him to leave them alone.
The Jester reads disappointment on the guard’s stupid face. His meaty lower lip drops as he’s pondering hard on how to make himself useful so that he’s allowed to linger. His cruel gaze tells the Jester the man craves blood, no matter whether it is sighting its spillage facilitated by someone else or inflicting the harm himself. The Jester winces.
‘Now!’ the officer barks.
The guard straightens up, salutes and hurries outside. He isn’t bold enough to argue with his superior but he sneers at the Jester. His farewell glance is a promise of future torture.
‘Well, isn’t it nice to finally meet the famous bard of the underground. I can see the guard has already showed you our hospitality.’ The officer chuckles, clasping his hands. He then plaits his long elegant fingers and rests them against his cleanly-shaven chin. ‘Don’t mind him. He’s not a refined man. I’m sure the two of us can come to an arrangement.’ He bends over the desk, closer towards the Jester. ‘I am myself a parton of the arts, my friend. We both want you back on stage.’
The Jester doesn’t flinch. He stares at the officer. If the man hopes to buy his cooperation with a few pleasantries, he will be sorely disappointed. Actors may be softies but he isn’t just any actor. He’s a jester. He comprehends the meanness, the cruelty, the abhorrence better than la vie en rose. After all, to jest is to disguise a fault under a cloak of frivolity.
The officer clicks his tongue and backs away, falling deeper into his seat, his upper lip curving in one corner of his mouth. He switches on the desk lamp and turns its shade towards the Jester to blind him. The Jester blinks.
‘Open your eyes, my friend. We don’t want the guard to force open them for you. That’s right. Now, I’ll ask some questions and you answer yes or no. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Is your name Tomasz Kwiatkowski?’
‘No. My name is Jester.’
The officer bangs his fist on the desk.
‘Don’t try to be smart! We know that’s your name.’
The Jester tilts his head to one side.
‘Why do you ask then?’
‘Quiet!’ the officer bellows, bubbles of spit forming on his lip.
The Jester eyes them fascinated.
‘I finally get what bubbly means,’ he chuckles to himself.
The officer reaches to his chest pocket and drags a handkerchief to his mouth.
‘I admire your nerve. If I were you, I would sober up, my friend. Don’t you realise how serious your situation is? If you keep on being obstinate, I won’t be able to help you. And, I’d really like to be of service.’
‘I’m sure you would.’ The Jester snorts.
‘There is really only one thing I want from you. Maybe two.’
‘Shoot.’
The officer leers.
‘We offer our guests more sophisticated services than a bullet to the head, but where was I? Oh, yes. We want contact details of the leader of the underground. Karpowicz has evaded our company long enough. The first secretary has lost his patience. One address for one life. That’s more than a fair deal, isn’t it?’
‘You said you had two requests,’ the Jester answers with all the calm he can muster.
‘The second request is almost not worth mentioning.’ The officer glances away, waving his hand to emphasise how insignificant his demand is.
‘Better mention it so that there are no misunderstandings.’ A little smile twists the Jester’s lips.
‘Fair enough. You will work for us from now on. You can take part in as many underground plays as you like. You will also get access to the best theatres in the country, if you choose to act in the state approved plays.’
‘Very generous.’
The officer opens his eyes wider, eager to note signs of cooperation.
‘There is film and radio as well if you fancied reaching to those of the comrades who live outside the big cities. That would warm the generous heart of the first secretary. There is really no limit to the career possibilities for you. Who knows, perhaps you could even perform for comrade Stalin one day?’
‘Even for the master of puppets himself? Very tempting.’
The officer furrows his brows, uncertainty in his eyes.
‘We can be very generous, if you make it worth our while. These two small favours will pave the way to a fruitful, life-long friendship.’
‘You see that’s the point. Life-long is the key word here. If I was to look in the mirror ever again I would have to spit each time. I don’t think I’ll have saliva to spare. Well, maybe for this one final time.’ The Jester loudly gathers his phlegm and spits.
The officer reddens as the yellowish snot hits his cheek. But then he sneers, exposing his shark-like teeth.
‘Have it your way, my friend.’
He stands to go. As he unlatches the door, he calls for the guard who runs towards him with eagerness of a famished dog.
‘I won’t have anyone playing the fool in the matters of state business. He’s yours to do with as you please,’ the officer pronounces with malice, inclining his head towards the guard.
The guard’s eyes lighten up. His blood thirst will finally be quenched. He leaps towards his victim and thrusts the Jester onto the wall. Shooting like bullets, his fists ignite the fires of pain around the Jester’s body. The officer watches the torment, savouring each groan.
As the Jester senses his spirit readying to desert him, he whispers:
‘I am a jester. It’s my business to make a fool of an idiot. Even if the jest is partly on me.’
The Jester stumbles, drums a fuming staccato on his thighs and then bursts into hysterical laughter.
A roar passes through the audience. The spectators leap to their feet, their hands shooting high with their lighters. Flames flicker through the murkiness in ghostly quivers. A thunder produced by the hundreds of hands clapping in a unison bolts through his head. He freezes in ecstasy, standing still until the cheering crowd reaches for him and carries him in their arms as if he were their deity.
The shudders of elation that devoured his body, the sheer delight of being one with his audience stayed with him for days, sustaining him in what came after. His best performance ever. His last.
‘Raise, you hog!’ The guard boots him in his ribs and the Jester staggers, bending forward in pain. His whole body aches. A desire to shove away his hair glued by the blood and sweat to his puffy eyes only becomes stronger the moment he remembers his hands are roped. He squints.
‘Stand up, I said. You’ve got a visitor.’
Another punch, this time to his chest. He trips but then pushes himself to stand.
Like the Jester’s guard, the visitor’s green uniform marks his special police status. This one however boasts more stars on the lapel. Is it good or bad? The Jester muses. Does brutality permeate senior ranks as deeply as the lower? The officer, a wiry, bespectacled man of around fifty, isn’t as tall or brawny as the guard. His eyes gleam with intelligence, but coldness lurks in their corners.
‘Sit down, prisoner,’ the officer instructs, and the guard pushes the Jester onto a metal stool in the middle of the interrogation room. The officer perches on a comfortable-looking office chair behind a birch-wood desk separating him from the prisoner. The guard is about to drop to a plastic seat next to the door when the officer commands him to leave them alone.
The Jester reads disappointment on the guard’s stupid face. His meaty lower lip drops as he’s pondering hard on how to make himself useful so that he’s allowed to linger. His cruel gaze tells the Jester the man craves blood, no matter whether it is sighting its spillage facilitated by someone else or inflicting the harm himself. The Jester winces.
‘Now!’ the officer barks.
The guard straightens up, salutes and hurries outside. He isn’t bold enough to argue with his superior but he sneers at the Jester. His farewell glance is a promise of future torture.
‘Well, isn’t it nice to finally meet the famous bard of the underground. I can see the guard has already showed you our hospitality.’ The officer chuckles, clasping his hands. He then plaits his long elegant fingers and rests them against his cleanly-shaven chin. ‘Don’t mind him. He’s not a refined man. I’m sure the two of us can come to an arrangement.’ He bends over the desk, closer towards the Jester. ‘I am myself a parton of the arts, my friend. We both want you back on stage.’
The Jester doesn’t flinch. He stares at the officer. If the man hopes to buy his cooperation with a few pleasantries, he will be sorely disappointed. Actors may be softies but he isn’t just any actor. He’s a jester. He comprehends the meanness, the cruelty, the abhorrence better than la vie en rose. After all, to jest is to disguise a fault under a cloak of frivolity.
The officer clicks his tongue and backs away, falling deeper into his seat, his upper lip curving in one corner of his mouth. He switches on the desk lamp and turns its shade towards the Jester to blind him. The Jester blinks.
‘Open your eyes, my friend. We don’t want the guard to force open them for you. That’s right. Now, I’ll ask some questions and you answer yes or no. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Is your name Tomasz Kwiatkowski?’
‘No. My name is Jester.’
The officer bangs his fist on the desk.
‘Don’t try to be smart! We know that’s your name.’
The Jester tilts his head to one side.
‘Why do you ask then?’
‘Quiet!’ the officer bellows, bubbles of spit forming on his lip.
The Jester eyes them fascinated.
‘I finally get what bubbly means,’ he chuckles to himself.
The officer reaches to his chest pocket and drags a handkerchief to his mouth.
‘I admire your nerve. If I were you, I would sober up, my friend. Don’t you realise how serious your situation is? If you keep on being obstinate, I won’t be able to help you. And, I’d really like to be of service.’
‘I’m sure you would.’ The Jester snorts.
‘There is really only one thing I want from you. Maybe two.’
‘Shoot.’
The officer leers.
‘We offer our guests more sophisticated services than a bullet to the head, but where was I? Oh, yes. We want contact details of the leader of the underground. Karpowicz has evaded our company long enough. The first secretary has lost his patience. One address for one life. That’s more than a fair deal, isn’t it?’
‘You said you had two requests,’ the Jester answers with all the calm he can muster.
‘The second request is almost not worth mentioning.’ The officer glances away, waving his hand to emphasise how insignificant his demand is.
‘Better mention it so that there are no misunderstandings.’ A little smile twists the Jester’s lips.
‘Fair enough. You will work for us from now on. You can take part in as many underground plays as you like. You will also get access to the best theatres in the country, if you choose to act in the state approved plays.’
‘Very generous.’
The officer opens his eyes wider, eager to note signs of cooperation.
‘There is film and radio as well if you fancied reaching to those of the comrades who live outside the big cities. That would warm the generous heart of the first secretary. There is really no limit to the career possibilities for you. Who knows, perhaps you could even perform for comrade Stalin one day?’
‘Even for the master of puppets himself? Very tempting.’
The officer furrows his brows, uncertainty in his eyes.
‘We can be very generous, if you make it worth our while. These two small favours will pave the way to a fruitful, life-long friendship.’
‘You see that’s the point. Life-long is the key word here. If I was to look in the mirror ever again I would have to spit each time. I don’t think I’ll have saliva to spare. Well, maybe for this one final time.’ The Jester loudly gathers his phlegm and spits.
The officer reddens as the yellowish snot hits his cheek. But then he sneers, exposing his shark-like teeth.
‘Have it your way, my friend.’
He stands to go. As he unlatches the door, he calls for the guard who runs towards him with eagerness of a famished dog.
‘I won’t have anyone playing the fool in the matters of state business. He’s yours to do with as you please,’ the officer pronounces with malice, inclining his head towards the guard.
The guard’s eyes lighten up. His blood thirst will finally be quenched. He leaps towards his victim and thrusts the Jester onto the wall. Shooting like bullets, his fists ignite the fires of pain around the Jester’s body. The officer watches the torment, savouring each groan.
As the Jester senses his spirit readying to desert him, he whispers:
‘I am a jester. It’s my business to make a fool of an idiot. Even if the jest is partly on me.’
Featured Entry by Jim bob
A haze of intoxication from the night before
Wedding reception.
Same clothes, the pink and white striped shirt.
Worn with heady confidence, a smile of effort, of indifference.
The old platform stands alone, worn drum skins, singers gone
Pink and white shirt tails hang over hired stained pants
As he asks of the girl in the tight jeans with his useless giggle.
His tone shaky, unfortunate initiates simmered smiles
Amongst a spacious ungracious cigarette butt filled floor
But that night had rolled on
Their is another left in the tank, a quick sweep, empty bar.
No one can see, his thinking confirms.
Grand mother looks on, grandson looks on
In a shallow smugness he lights a bent Rothmans
Pulling on the sharpness, he watches the wide window
The vast vacant vision of grey consumes his freshened buzz
And echoes of previous nights foolishness abates
Awaken.
The buffet was good, he opens, the buffet was lovely.
Long fingers grabbing at defrosted shrimps
Sauce running off his chin
But the band played on that night.
But the girl looked good, under coloured shimmers
Really good, the real deal.
Un like the snot rolling emissions from the sad face
Once a glad face
A face demanding love, insisting success
A fool playing it
Formica topped stained, surfaces enhanceA haze of intoxication from the night before
Wedding reception.
Same clothes, the pink and white striped shirt.
Worn with heady confidence, a smile of effort, of indifference.
The old platform stands alone, worn drum skins, singers gone
Pink and white shirt tails hang over hired stained pants
As he asks of the girl in the tight jeans with his useless giggle.
His tone shaky, unfortunate initiates simmered smiles
Amongst a spacious ungracious cigarette butt filled floor
But that night had rolled on
Their is another left in the tank, a quick sweep, empty bar.
No one can see, his thinking confirms.
Grand mother looks on, grandson looks on
In a shallow smugness he lights a bent Rothmans
Pulling on the sharpness, he watches the wide window
The vast vacant vision of grey consumes his freshened buzz
And echoes of previous nights foolishness abates
Awaken.
The buffet was good, he opens, the buffet was lovely.
Long fingers grabbing at defrosted shrimps
Sauce running off his chin
But the band played on that night.
But the girl looked good, under coloured shimmers
Really good, the real deal.
Un like the snot rolling emissions from the sad face
Once a glad face
A face demanding love, insisting success
A fool playing it
Formica topped stained, surfaces enhance coldness
As the people speak without tone.
Sunlight attempting to break through a consistent insistent cloud.
And the fool played on
coldness.
As the people speak without tone.
Sunlight attempting to break through a consistent insistent cloud.
And the fool plays on
Wedding reception.
Same clothes, the pink and white striped shirt.
Worn with heady confidence, a smile of effort, of indifference.
The old platform stands alone, worn drum skins, singers gone
Pink and white shirt tails hang over hired stained pants
As he asks of the girl in the tight jeans with his useless giggle.
His tone shaky, unfortunate initiates simmered smiles
Amongst a spacious ungracious cigarette butt filled floor
But that night had rolled on
Their is another left in the tank, a quick sweep, empty bar.
No one can see, his thinking confirms.
Grand mother looks on, grandson looks on
In a shallow smugness he lights a bent Rothmans
Pulling on the sharpness, he watches the wide window
The vast vacant vision of grey consumes his freshened buzz
And echoes of previous nights foolishness abates
Awaken.
The buffet was good, he opens, the buffet was lovely.
Long fingers grabbing at defrosted shrimps
Sauce running off his chin
But the band played on that night.
But the girl looked good, under coloured shimmers
Really good, the real deal.
Un like the snot rolling emissions from the sad face
Once a glad face
A face demanding love, insisting success
A fool playing it
Formica topped stained, surfaces enhanceA haze of intoxication from the night before
Wedding reception.
Same clothes, the pink and white striped shirt.
Worn with heady confidence, a smile of effort, of indifference.
The old platform stands alone, worn drum skins, singers gone
Pink and white shirt tails hang over hired stained pants
As he asks of the girl in the tight jeans with his useless giggle.
His tone shaky, unfortunate initiates simmered smiles
Amongst a spacious ungracious cigarette butt filled floor
But that night had rolled on
Their is another left in the tank, a quick sweep, empty bar.
No one can see, his thinking confirms.
Grand mother looks on, grandson looks on
In a shallow smugness he lights a bent Rothmans
Pulling on the sharpness, he watches the wide window
The vast vacant vision of grey consumes his freshened buzz
And echoes of previous nights foolishness abates
Awaken.
The buffet was good, he opens, the buffet was lovely.
Long fingers grabbing at defrosted shrimps
Sauce running off his chin
But the band played on that night.
But the girl looked good, under coloured shimmers
Really good, the real deal.
Un like the snot rolling emissions from the sad face
Once a glad face
A face demanding love, insisting success
A fool playing it
Formica topped stained, surfaces enhance coldness
As the people speak without tone.
Sunlight attempting to break through a consistent insistent cloud.
And the fool played on
coldness.
As the people speak without tone.
Sunlight attempting to break through a consistent insistent cloud.
And the fool plays on
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