Ancient Egyptians

I’m Keir Carter / sponsored by royal museum charter / cramming down breakfast keen to get started / the workers superstitious & half-hearted / as he shakily breaks the seal on the tomb / and casts his torch about the gloom / wow! a Lyttle decorated room / chintzy as a dusty Blackpool ballroom / and lying in the centre / the focus of Keir’s desert adventure / the mummy of the Pharaoh Johnson / bougie as a straw topped Tutankhamen / and then some / lovingly bandaged in golden / wallpaper / stuffed with shredded red-top newspaper / snug in a matryoshka-style sarcophagus / ceremonial tweets backed-up in his oesophagus / which read like some kind of demented curse / but Keir’s read worse / he’s media savvy and well-rehearsed / he knows the hashtag to get the magic reversed

I’m a horror flick: The Spuds Have Eyes! / special effects derisory / parental advisory / explicit scenes with a vegetable peeler / realistic gardening procedures / DVD with special features / a blooper reel / with a surreal / clash / where Jason Statham goes to mash / the evil spud king / and the mash gets splashed across everything / the camera lens, the ceiling / Jason’s shoulders heaving / still not believing / he told his agent he’d do this shit / but still it’s a hit / sells quite a bit / so all things being equal / he thinks he’ll probably sign for the sequel

I’m a lonely little petunia in an onion patch / considering my options, looking for scratch / swiping right on a primrose, natch / it’s a match / ten years later the bulbs are in bloom / and we’re finalising visiting rights on zoom

I’m a swingers’ party for internet trolls / fol-de-rol / memory sticks and keys in the bowl / man! / it’s my jam! / a junk free jamboree / I’m positively skipping through security / totally in my element! / everything VR and decadent / the cheetos and doritos universally excellent / mouthwash and baby wipes prevalent / once in a while it’s nice to be human / but when the reviews come out I’m fumin’ / they don’t like pleather onesies, I’m assumin’

I’m Captain Kirk / busting out my pants and shirt / ancient but just about credibly alert / phasers on stun, phones on divert / ready to boldly go and be cool / on a flaming dump of aviation fuel / singing the song he learned back at Star School / hey diddle diddle / Jeff B’s on the fiddle / his cock whazzed over the moon / the little dog laughed to see such fun / and the dish needed a year or two out to work on themselves

I’m a caesar salad, stabbed in the croutons by a breadstick / how prophetic / it’s so pathetic / you don’t know what to say / you awkwardly ad lib et tu souffle

(studio laughter)

okay that’s it – I’m written out, shot / poetry’s just typing and finding what you’ve got / sometimes it works and sometimes not / but hey – at least I upload a lot / the twisted poet that Twitter forgot / so, please do not adjust your glasses / everything changes, everything passes / city empires to weeds and grasses / the arctic melts and the ocean advances / meanwhile I’m done with all of that / not a literary lion but a wordle gnat / trapped in a glob of tree resin / fossilising over the next millennium / into a piece of lambent amber / gazing out of my yellow glazed chamber / trying to remember / whether my birthday was June or December / as a security guard yawns in the Geology centre

I knew I’d seen him before. He’s the father of someone I used to work with in the ambulance.
‘How’s Gracia? It’s a shame we lost touch.’
‘Fine,’ he says. ‘Same as ever.’
‘Tell her I said hi.’
‘I will.’
So how’s her daughter, Lily?’
‘D’you mean Sofia?’
‘That’s it. Sofia. How’s Sofia?’
‘She’s fifteen now.’
‘Is she? Fifteen! Where does the time go?’
‘If I knew I’d go there, too.’
‘Is Gracia still in the ambulance?’
‘Nah. She works in a surgery. She’s a practice nurse.’
‘A practice nurse! That’s great!’
‘She likes it.’
I close the yellow folder, put it to one side, then pause a moment to chew the fat, hooking my hands around my knee, rocking forwards and back.
‘That must’ve been when I met you for the first time. Fifteen years ago, at Sofia’s first birthday party.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘In a function room over a swimming pool.’
‘I think it was at the Buddhist centre.’
‘Was it?’
‘I think so.’
‘Maybe I’m thinking of someone else.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Didn’t Gracia’s husband work in the fashion trade? Wasn’t he a buyer or something like that?’
‘He’s a dentist.’
‘A dentist?’
‘But they’re not together any more.’
‘Oh. Sorry to hear that.’
He sighs and pulls his cardigan more tightly around him, even though the room is stiflingly hot.
‘I’m glad I’m on the mend,’ he says. ‘I’ve got a cruise coming up in a couple of months.’
‘Have you? How lovely! Where’re you going? Somewhere warm?’
‘Egypt.’
‘Great! I’d love to go to Egypt. The Valley of the Kings and all that.’
‘I’ve always been fascinated by the Ancient Egyptians. As you probably guessed when you walked in the door.’
I glance round the room – mostly at a well-stocked bookcase to his left, crammed with Egyptian art and history books, each shelf lined with a selection of soapstone figurines, cats and bulls and miniature obelisks, and on the very top shelf, either end of a row of smaller books with golden and black hieroglyphs on the spines, two pharaoh head bookends cast in resin.
‘I see what you mean!’
‘Not that,’ he says, ‘That!’ and nods to my right.
And for the first time I see it – a life-size replica of King Tutankhamen’s sarcophagus, standing floor to ceiling, brilliantly lit by four spots.
‘Oh!’ I say. ‘Wow! I totally missed it!
‘He takes a deep breath, sighs and shakes his head.
‘Well. Hidden in plain sight, then,’ he says. and folds his arms. ‘All done?’