Thursday, August 22, 2013

Dead Rite chapter 156.11


“Not really. I know enough about them to get your meaning but I could never bear to watch those films.”

“Too scary?”

“Yes, at least at the time, but it's more to do with not having the images in my head than any sense of being frightened by them. I was a poet, you see, so I didn't want the darkness.”

“Plenty of poets write about the darkness. I thought having a bucket or two of angst, depression and downright terror was practically a pre-requisite for being a successful poet.”

“And there you have it, lad. Successful. Something I never was.”

“There's time yet, surely?”

“What? Write more poems and have Harold publish them posthumously as if he'd just found them in a box in the attic?”

“Well, there's that, yes, or you could just write under a pseudonym.”

“How? I can't even pick up a pen to write more than a word or two.”

“Can you type? I could get you a keyboard that would respond to the lightest of touches. Or you could get a secretary.”

“What's the point though? Even if I got a publisher interested I'd have to have a public presence. Keep a web thingy. Perform on the poetry circuit.”

“You could hire an actor to play you. Or not. You could be enigmatic and surreal like that bloke with the moustache.”

“Chaplin?”

“No, the artist bloke. The melting clocks and eggy daffodils.”

“Oh, Dali.” Frederick frowned. “I could, couldn't I? I could even call myself the Dead Poet.”

“There you go, then. Death is no obstacle to a life's work.”

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