Dumbo in Cuckooland
Photo by Varshil Changani on Unsplash
The Chancellor’s cloudy thought-bubble
begins to rise, squeezes its way
out of his rotund body,
& pushes off past stretchered patients
and their rushing docs that throng
the corridor. It slips into
a lift and tiptoes up the stairs
onto the hospital roof,
has a quick fag, and jumps. Leaving
naught but an Oxford comma behind.
*
The chancellor looks out glumly
from his levitating bubble
at passing jumbo jets defying
the travel ban to bring us books
& toys by post from Amazon,
past flocks of birds, their collective
compasses confused by pesticides
& telephones. He has a little
scuffle in the lobby with
one of the bouncers of Our Lord
but sets off doddering bibulously
on up the heady ladder of
epistemology that leads
to the realm of forms. The yellow
bricks that pave the winding route
reference, he notes, the monetary
prudence of a predecessor.
Arriving angels rush to inject
the chancellor’s arteries with ichor
and greet his ghost. Jean-Jacques’s assigned
his case. Let them eat cake. Jezza
the Judge disarms the Chancellor
with twinkling yet piercing eye,
set in formaldehyde in his
panopticon, flanked by a bench
of grim-faced qadis and ephors
chosen to hear the Chancellor’s
opinions put to a jury
of peers, which finds, after brief
conclave and deliberation,
in favor of the people ‘gainst
the Chancellor. The Chancellor’s counsel
instantly lodges appeal.
The Chancellor is out on bail
bumbling around again. Almighty
is mighty pissed to have to open
the appellant court again—first
time since Adam and Job, egged on
by Satan, and that Jobs, trundled
their misery guts before the court.
Milord peers condescendingly
at the plaintiff over the half-moon
specs he needs to read his notes these days.
Orders him to his chambers for a chat.
The chancellor pits his intellect
against the Lord, who’s now long passed his prime,
now atheistic clerics throng
the ranks of heaven’s angels
& spread fake news pertaining to
his ontic status and gender,
call Him a Her or They and such.
Mind drifting, the Almighty lets
the Chancellor drone on and on,
till with an oratorical
flourish of dramatic triumph
worthy of a Demosthenes,
he swishes the veil away. Whiz;
Schlumpf. Gzump. Shbang … The wizard’s
got no clothes.
*
The Chancellor jerks wide-eyed
and naked back to life under
the spark of the defibrillator.
“Wow. Thought we’d lost you there, dear boy,”
the songstress merrily chortles
through mouthfuls of hospital lunch.
“Sit up chuck. Now. Look sharpish.
Time for our swan song to be sung.
Time for our audience of visitors to come.”
[…] The Chancellor and the Songstress Part 6 — Interlude — Dumbo in Cuckooland […]