‘The God Morpheus vs. The Little Baby Kuppy’ and Other Poetry by James Sale The Society October 30, 2015 Beauty, Humor, Poetry The God Morpheus vs. The Little Baby Kuppy You’d think in such a fight – no contest To be sure – immortal gods happen not To happen, but have always been best And around to give humans their best shot. That’s it – perhaps complacency, the sense That once in a ring’s endless symbolic spin Such assurance comes, why should a god be tense Or Morpheus consider other than he’ll win? Already there, to cheering crowd’s acclaim – They’ll worship him lest what he’ll do to them – As down the aisle the new contender, lame And helpless comes, and enters, dribbling phlegm. How Morpheus mocks and laughs to see the baby, New-born, addicted to his mother’s milk, Fast as a tractor in a hemmed-in layby, With fists he can’t clench to punch through worn-out silk. There, within the ring, Kuppy en-swaddled close In clothes of utter comfort, with his dummy, Unsubdued, exuding confidence – does he know How Morph steals in as outwards goes his mummy? And so it is that they engage, and Morpheus Who long before defeated Gilgamesh And so many heroes familiar to us, Strikes first with deadly aim, and hits the flesh. Poor Kuppy reels and reels and rolls his eyes, His eyes are all for covers – who could bear To see the final, fatal blow’s bye-byes? It looks as if Morph has Kuppy unaware… But then, that sudden shock, that surging blink, That upraised arm for victory and Kuppy! And baby who’s determined now to think, Fight back, soil Morpheus with his nappy. What horror then does Morpheus encounter? Not just the dirt of life but steady wail Which pierces veils of godhead to his centre; Now Morpheus staggers – will he be man, and fail? Under the dim halogen’s faint glow, By comfy cot so clean and freshly made – Unfair advantage it all too clearly shows – Morpheus resumes oblivion’s trade. Assaults afresh with every weapon known To god, and more thrown in beside to still That ear-splitting axe of a whine, and drown The child in the muffled blanket of his will. But Little Kuppy’s not done, repulses with A fist’s surging shake and promise of Ultimate horror: baring gums sans teeth With raspy, purple tongue, flat as a dog’s. The little critter’s one hell of a mean Machine, implacably hostile to gods, Their ends and pointless orders and even dreams. One ounce of milk’s worth more than all of Hesiod; No-one lays him aside without permission, And if Morpheus will beg to differ then It’s bowel time with full nuclear fission, A mouth stuck screaming, like a kipper’s, open. At last, in ravages of despair, quitting, Morpheus seeks a softer option to practise On. Anxiously, they wait below, sitting As if enjoying life, as if all were nice, But mummy, daddy, all the while alert And worried – should they? Is it premature? Time to go up: to delay is to shirk, But giving in – are they really sure? Too tired to move, now under Morph’s dark spell, Some consolation godhead gets in getting Two thinking that they’ve heaven, when it’s hell, That beauty’s in vigils and bed-wetting. A Shirt of Nessus Together, man and woman, God bless us: May joining not impede human progress, Or prove the ultimate shirt of Nessus. To be a hero’s difficult to suss: How can – if the art’s our loneliness – Together, man and woman, God bless us? And given experience, we’re suspicious Of warm words, cute contact’s caress we guess Will prove the ultimate shirt of Nessus. Suburbia’s where our real address is, So why pretend we’re epic? Nonetheless Together, man and woman, God bless us, Because betrayal’s hard, cruel emphasis Hurts still, despite our own unworthiness To prove the ultimate shirt of Nessus – Perhaps – which makes us so, dear, precious: We risk ourselves becoming her and his Together, man and woman, God bless us Loving the ultimate shirt of Nessus. © James Sale 2015 Burnham Gardens, 43 Burnham Drive, Queens Park, Bournemouth BH8 9EX James Sale, FRSA is a leading expert on motivation, and the creator and licensor of Motivational Maps worldwide. James has been writing poetry for over 40 years and has seven collections of poems published, including most recently, Inside the Whale, his metaphor for being in hospital and surviving cancer, which afflicted him in 2011. He can be found at www.jamessale.co.uk and contacted at james@motivational maps.com. He is the winner of Second Prize in the Society’s 2015 Competition Related Post ‘The Country Club’ and Other Poetry by Alexander... The Country Club To think about a country club Begun for whisky in a tub, Distilled from fields of golden corn In a town where I was born For f... Tell the world:FacebookTwitterTumblrPinterestRedditLinkedInEmail Leave a Reply Cancel Reply Your email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email. This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.