Are we but children
who stand upon the pens
and shoulders of our forefathers
those who wrote
before us
Joyce
Woolfe
La Dispute
the storm-born lyrics
that alight our hearts
we salute you.
The small gathering of poets clapped enthusiastically. Herman whooped, air-pumping his right paw, then shouted "say it, unhh". There were a few of them, and they called themselves the New Age Slammers. They are, for the most part, poets. The young inner-city intelligentsia who weave the rawness of emotion, the vibrancy of nature and the irony of counter-culture into brilliant, or not so-brilliant, works of written art. On the existentially tree-stump-like pedestal stood Marrakesh, a horned owl dressed in a muslin toga and sporting a rigid, artistically non-nonchalant quiff. His poem, entitled Ode to They of Before, alternatively The True Ozymandius - he was undecided before presentation and decided to wing it - was delivered with the characteristic undulation of a beak-bred tongue.
Also in the gathering was Olivar the ill-tempered owl fashionista; Herman, a lactose intolerant and thoroughly anaemic badger, whose poem What If We Gave Them All Honey? was met with a general mix of disregard, and the most mocking of outro's from the chancellor, Balthazar. The New Age chancellor was a slim, wide-eyed man with a bristling moustache and a voice truly unsuited to his demeanour, often frightening speakers off the stage with its guttural, avalanche-sounding tone; frankly, it felt as if he spoke via seismic tremors rather than simple words. Alongside Olivar, who was of a notably foul disposition at the sorry state of affairs regarding the gathered's dress, stood the looming, twisted, broken-umbrella appearance of Gareth. Two grimey cuffs peeked blindly from under his blazer, bound by two garnet-set cufflinks shaped like ampersands. He wore a simple black ensemble: three-piece, double breasted with tails, and an apparently velvet top hat. His cane was aged and gnarled, although the varnish was flaking near bottom, and the handle was fake ivory.
Gareth was ecstatic when he had heard that the New Age Slammers had decided to make the old Carrowack Graveyard their new port-of-call. He had sent summons for some more barstools to be swiped and a serving toad to be brought in. Truthfully, getting anything imported was a nightmare, and most of his interactions with outsiders were through the extortionate fence Malcolm, an unsavoury fellow at best.
"Olivar! Olivar you dolorous old fool. Come, you will be attending the meet with me." He called up at the owl's bough. Dressed and ready to go; he was impatient. "Knave, get your feathered ego down here!" he yelled. "Boy, if I wanted to watch a load of lacrimosal washclothes wax foul lyrical then I would simply observe you whenever the beggars walk by and you exclaim at the unfairness of the world, the common obsession with monetary gain and the lack of good music to prevent such poor people from being so morose!". Indeed, for all his moaning, Olivar had swooped down from his treetop bough wearing a fanciful yellow and green checkered peice of frippery, with the words "Outlaw Orange Jumpsuits SOS" printed in bold across the breast. He cooed quietly at Gareth's threads: "Boy, your aesthetics offend not only me, but the very air you breathe. In fact, I believe I can see the agony misting on your every breath."
"Amateurs. There was no feeling to their work. They didn't address the socio-political immorality that so plagues our realm, I felt as if I was listening to something so pre-century. I couldn't relate, y'know? In all honesty, their works were shallow and immature. Childish, really. They needed intellectual depth." Gareth was sombre. He says he enjoyed the speaking. He says that despite the low quality of the presented pieces, it was nice to have some fellow poets around. You know, people who got him. Herman had spoken enthusiastically about the direction the current meta-absurdist fiction sce e was going, quoting the city gazette Metatative Wordplay: "for all it is worth, the fourth wall is pretty much a little bitch who bows to any nut case with a quill". Somewhat more dull was Balthazar's preoccupation with the atrocious popular court music of the capital; it was a riveting topic for the citydwelling slammers, but left Gareth quite out of the conversation. His tastes leaned towards the eclecticity of the graveyard scene. Tension simmered briefly when he mentioned a travelling quartet that no one had heard of besides him, cutting off Balthazar and leaving the conversation rotting in a pool of silence, very still.
"Amateurs. There was no feeling to their work. They didn't address the socio-political immorality that so plagues our realm, I felt as if I was listening to something so pre-century. I couldn't relate, y'know? In all honesty, their works were shallow and immature. Childish, really. They needed intellectual depth." Gareth was sombre. He says he enjoyed the speaking. He says that despite the low quality of the presented pieces, it was nice to have some fellow poets around. You know, people who got him. Herman had spoken enthusiastically about the direction the current meta-absurdist fiction sce e was going, quoting the city gazette Metatative Wordplay: "for all it is worth, the fourth wall is pretty much a little bitch who bows to any nut case with a quill". Somewhat more dull was Balthazar's preoccupation with the atrocious popular court music of the capital; it was a riveting topic for the citydwelling slammers, but left Gareth quite out of the conversation. His tastes leaned towards the eclecticity of the graveyard scene. Tension simmered briefly when he mentioned a travelling quartet that no one had heard of besides him, cutting off Balthazar and leaving the conversation rotting in a pool of silence, very still.
Olivar, surprisingly, enjoyed the event much more. He took the opportunity to survey the currently popular outfits of the city, criticise them generously, and summarily making each composition substantially less garish with his own additions, conveyed by rather vocal advice. "You, boy, that pocket watch you are wearing. I have never seen such a hideous, unflattering time piece. Are you sure it keeps time, rather than simply waving its hands randomly while screaming profanities at passing womenfolk? No no, you need a proper pewter piece. I always say: you cannot afford to skimp on quality timewear. My own sundial is sturdy lead with gold inlay, likely to last me well into the new year." It must be supposed that he felt he was doing them a favour with his critical comments, for he waltzed off, tail feathers perked and beak high. Balthazar, after the closing words, had taken a stroll with Gareth:
"Gareth, lad, I must say your neighbourhood is faboulous. Absolutely cultured. Whilst I hold reservations about your friend, I must compliment you on your tastes. I saw the way you shook your head at Milicent's poetic train-wreck - really, I don't know why we suffer him." The bass thrum of his voice rattled Gareth's skettlebones. His sockets moaned. "I think, lad, that we shall be back. I like the atmosphere here, very gothic. I'll see if I can arrange a themed reading."
"Olivar, remind me never to talk to those soporific collective of lobotomised anti-thespians again. Fucking hipsters."
