The try-hard windbag in the tête-à-tête
sits legs akimbo; manspreading, cramming
body politic into jet-black trousers. Its hair
a bouffant-esque mess salutes us in
lacquer-coated aloofness, a peacock
pouting like some kind of Byronic cad.
Jabbering its jaw, its tongue clatters
akin to ferrous metal, rattling off
words barely fit for tinker toys,
recycling trash talk in the guise
of iron-clad philosophy. It spouts
decaying diatribes scavenged from
the scrappage of cultural wastes,
verbiage surfacing like rusted girders,
with the bunkum it puffs beckoning us on
a guided tour amid the rafters of its mind.
As if in the grip of epiphany,
it flutters its eye-line to meet
its foil—a surly anchor with
furrowed brows whose jowls droop
then curl into a discerning smirk,
ready to listen. Deafened by decibels
boomed upon take-off, a magniloquent
flight of fancy flashes like lasers
shone at a cockpit, blinding the pilot
with myopic guff and bluster.
The motormouth sputters, casuistry
interfering with in-flight instruments,
its garrulous fanfaronade turbulently
shaking us from our deepest apathy.
Among the clouds swoops the eidolon,
its plumage spreading as it squawks,
showering serfs with torrents of spit
in fits of sophistry. Bleeding air tilts
our trajectory, dead-heading our way to
a lower altitude in the circumlocutory
crosswind. The sound of crowing wisps
through one’s ears in the hub-and-spoke
as a throng gabbles in captious rapture,
enthralled by this palaverous messiah.
The eidolon feathers its nest: its disciples
hungrily lapping up regurgitated castings,
parroting creeds to the clipping of wings.
The jangle of the eidolon’s charm swings
like a stethoscope beating against
the chest of a GP, blessed thou art
with the healing power of a witch doctor
having sung ting tang walla walla bing bang
to chant a diagnosis, but ill-equipped
at prescribing a cure.
© 2016 Luke Edley
Humorous fiction writer, poet and novelist. Fond of satire. Interested in comic novels, black comedy and tales of satirical derring-do.