Tales from the Rumiverse 2 for Svetlana

Broken Heart too.

Palpitations thrusting love in the limelight;

Made it hard, to sleep last night?

One demands sex – the go-to man she calls me.

One demands a kiss – a temptation easily avoided selfish woman.

One is carrying too much guilt – her crazy bundle of joy.

“I want to go to Dubai!” she cried.

She cries a lot these days,

Consumed in anger and remorse as her man departed.

“Seven years!” she told me.

“Seven years and all the time he cavorted off screen!”

She asked my why?

But I am a mere mortal man

“Because he can!

In Kazakhstan!”

She asked me to wait,

Eight years and counting down towards nuptials

At my graveside.

“Why did I wait?” she implores. “Eight years without love!

Loneliness imposed in my lack of trust!”

Wait not my sweet thing.

Seize the Carp! Every day!

Keep on fishing!

“Am I fisher of men or a fisher of fish?” she cries.

“I am a fissure of the heart,” I reply.

 

Tales from the Rumiverse 1 for Akzhana

Love – by Rumi and Otway.

Lazy Sunday Afternoon;

Waiting!

Waiting for You!

Another girl, Another City, Another delay.

“I fought with my sister – sorry darling.”

Patient man, paying penance perhaps prolonging painful parting.

Yet she comes, walking in glowing delight;

Waking my breaking heart to new –

Old feelings of love and respect and affection and two.

“I turned down three for you! 0329 came the last demand!”

I will come she said; I was asleep.

My broken heart no longer needs the pain, the shallow victories,

The crazies – it was fun while it lasted.

Now I look for a Gallery in the Sun,

Fields of waving corn with dreams of you in Bluey Green.

“Turquoise” she said “But I need to lose ten kilos.”

Come on home to me – I will wait for a while.

“Deep and meaningless!”

Be my love.

 

Svetlana

When first I came to Kazakhstan,

I never dreamt of Lana Scan.

Or how on Earth it could ever be

That I would see myself in effigy.

 

Backstabbing cronies telling lies

I want to stab them in the eyes,

And ride roughshod upon their heads

As I set fire to their feather beds.

 

Rumour lies in gossip in pubs,

Talentless twats; that gets the rub!

Personal histories that leak like a sieve,

They wonder why no fucks I give!

 

Great times in Almaty City,

Going soon, mores the pity.

Svetlana I have to leave the area;

Fancy a stroll in Gran Canaria?

 

Maybe just take it on the chin,

Kazak clichés growing thin.

Lana Scan can you please tell me

Why I was barking up the wrong tree?

Sad tale number 2

It is with great sadness that I have to relate the story of the death of my beloved Headmaster, Mr Christopher Peacock.

He was, as usual, interfering in a part of the school he knows nothing about, trying his best to see what kind of learning takes place in a subject he does not comprehend. Still, it gave him another opportunity to fill in a form that would make it look as though he was doing his job.

In this case he had wandered into the Chemistry Laboratory to see how the senior students were progressing. Of course being one of those thick skulled administrators he didn’t have a chance at understanding the difference between a mole and a birth mark. But he looked busy, even though the students treated him with utter contempt; after all it was the Headmasters initiatives that were driving away all of the best teachers.

Being a few sandwiches short of a picnic, Mr Peacock started fiddling with a bottle of unlabelled Chemicals whilst in the vicinity of a Bunsen burner. Nobody quite knows what happened but there was a huge bang, a flash and a dead Headmaster.

The burns were quite severe; his face was unrecognisable. The Coroner had to have someone identify the body, and as Mr Peacock was a dedicated single man it fell upon the lot of two of his Senior teachers to come and help identify him.

First in the room was his drinking buddy Roger Title. The Coroner warned Mr. Title that it was an unpleasant and shocking sight. The Coroner pulled back the covering to show the badly scorched face.

“Is this Mr. Chris Peacock?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” said Roger. “Could you roll him over?”

A strange request but the Coroner obliged.

“No that can’t be Chris,” said Roger and left the room.

The next member of the gang was invited in, Mr Stephen Butts, another drinking pal of no fixed intelligence.

“Is this Mr. Chris Peacock?”  asked the Coroner.

“I’m not sure,” said Steve. “Could you roll him over?”

Again this seemed an odd request, But the Coroner, being a good public servant, did as requested.

“No that can’t be Chris,” said Steve and left the room.

The Coroner of course was quite curious as to how the two members of the elite Senior Leadership Team could be so certain that this could not be Chris peacock. After all the ambulance had brought the body straight from the startled school.

“How you be so sure that isn’t Chris Peacock just by looking at his back?” asked the intrigued surveyor of the dead.

“Well,” explained Steve, “Every time the three of us would walk into the Staffroom someone would say ‘Here comes Chris with the two arseholes’.”