PARABLES FOR

THE POURING RAIN

PAUL SUTTON

BLAZEVOX[BOOKS]
Buffalo, New York
Parables For The Pouring Rain
by Paul Sutton
Copyright © 2018
Published by BlazeVOX [books]

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without

the publisher’s written permission, except for brief quotations in reviews.

Printed in the United States of America

Interior design and typesetting by Geoffrey Gatza

First Edition
ISBN: 978-1-60964-317-1
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018947056

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BESTIARY OF BLIGHTY
Authoritarian centre

An elite that is ignored feels it needs to attack:

‘We who have given so much. Universal suffrage is
disastrous – there’s no point granting free speech to
those who have nothing to say. Censor – unless they address
our structural inequalities – and I don't mean my vote mattering
more than theirs. Trap them in sheds – on all-inclusive holidays.

A terrifying populism scratches through this land (if my side loses).

I’ve been to Telford, that’s no way to live – let alone Doncaster or
Bracknell New Town. I know what the people think or feel or want –
we’re tired of telling them. Don't they see a Falange of vermin hunters
preparing to chase their children through fields and roast them over
open fires? We’re labelled “elite”, I burst with pride – how little it hurts

to control the debate, emote, dress as a giant genital. Facts are weapons –
all the mob understands is violence and kebabs (perhaps chicken wraps).
I had a friend who married a working-class man. He beat her daily, posted
it online, forced her to drink lager, and work as a bird table. His thermos-flask
got broken – so he buried her under the artificial ski-slope in Milton Keynes.
That’s why I write, her memory – thank God – she's the only victim I know.’

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The view from Marshlock

Even by the standards of British dilapidation, Marshlock is desolate.

Its location – between the granite cliffs and roaring waterfalls of East Anglia –
attracts fewer tourists by the year.

A collapse in the aubergine and olive harvests – in successive summers – has

produced near destitution.

Numerous pirates prey on the lugubrious inhabitants.

(Under new poetry directives, any mention of this is forbidden.)

When they arrive, kebabs are offered – and ‘cigarettes’.

Bedazzled young girls copulate, on the strand of sand where misshapen fish
and strange meats are auctioned on Thursdays.

Our local church welcomes this activity.

We are now dependent on these new arrivals.

As predicted by Cavafy, they – who were ‘once some sort of answer’ –

assimilated us.

I cannot complain though.

My managerial activities are assisted by such leadership.

Khat has replaced lager as the drug of choice.

Margins are considerably higher.

Most fatalities are from cliff-falls – which the ravenous tides quickly remove.

My only worry is what to do with these stockpiles of Cumberland sausages and

pulled-pork pizzas.

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Dialogue

A young child on viola, how European! Even if the house is Victorian or

Georgian.

Large areas of English cities form unexpected oases of beauty for faces smudged with
coal smuts look at the fruit trees of considerable height they blossom in spring as the
former basements are bathed in light.

My father claimed beauty in grey from a sea which throttled me.

The key to regeneration is art and culture – and community. We may bustle and
bristle, but this gets things done, which is not to be sneered at – if a pier collapses,
artisanal bread floats and forms a life-raft.

Have you tried tea and cakes of pig fat, rides through brickworks to a single
room?

Now communal chanting and swift crowd judgements thrill the eager visitor as
torch-lit parades enthral an audience even Dali could not dream of.

And thinness, an effect of genocide, it taught me ‘art’.

An explosion in higher education has created our population bursting for poetry, song
and thin monographs on Slovenian surrealists.

Now I see them urinating in lay-bys or gallivanting in burnt fields as crops rot.

Take your pick from the vast array of restaurants of every nationality – many of
which serve food children can safely eat.

Alien clothes stand surreal at bus stops, teeth gleam – violence awaits us all.

A mature debate is needed – the lack of nuance astounds those of us educated in higher
values.

My front room is ready. The books are sentinel and sempiternal.

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Anything but immediate condemnation is blatant support for these flag-waving
lunatics.

So many arguments to confront a rush of fire.

My page stands ready for any flag, be it national or regional.

Maybe not the thrack as the petrol catches.

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The intricacies of persistent failure

I am an expert.

In a faded ski-jacket and old trainers, it loafs along, dodging backward glances,
following my every step.

I’ve had enough.

So I book my annual holiday in a motorway Ibis – amidst a migraine

patchwork of dusty vegetation, flight paths and conveyor-belts over graphite
lakes.

Here I await my brothers in failure.

Geoff from accruals and accounts payable has ordered some ‘Ukrainian bird’
for marriage and children, perfect for flights from Kiev – her family a mixture
of gangsters and radioactive meat suppliers.

We meet in the bar.

‘Women’s teeth are so important – have you read Zadie Smith?’

‘Most Slavs suffer from halitosis. I’m hoping my luck will change.’

We discuss the menu. I am familiar with the dizzying rhetorical tricks but
Geoff smiles in expectation.

‘Here she comes…’

I can’t decide between Hunter’s Chicken and Harissa Lasagne.

No one has yet explained the mysteries of the former. Originally a dish from
Provence, eaten on those enormous slaughter-drenched hunts, with rough
flagons of liquorice-tasting wine. Then brought to England by the Huguenots

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and – at first – a delicacy eaten at society balls, or Cambridge graduation
ceremonies.

Now, regional variations in England have ensured its continued popularity.

In Cornwall, it can be used in pasties or thrown at tourists.

In Lincolnshire, it is served as enormous coiled sausages then dumped on

mashed turnip.

In Lancashire, it is deep-fried with pigs’ blood and fed to anorexics on death

row.

Harissa! Is it made from body odour or unwashed hair?

Or maybe that’s baba ganoush – which had me evacuated on a drip from

Luxor.

How that family arrived!

A trudge around the hard-shoulder.

Some in national costumes, others in body bags.

One wearing an elephant costume, ridden by Assyrian archers, a cedar tree up

the arse.

Geoff and I hosted a welcoming party.

Local schools are full but somehow find room – the fields filled with fair folk,
jobs in Homebase – and courses, courses, courses.

Renegotiation will ensure a drawbridge and some grey knight waiting for the
holy chalice.

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Beach café

Geoff is hungry;
it’s no problem.

You know those surf cafés:

English coast; wetsuits; cheap kites;
confusing types of coffee?

You get a food ticket

from a cheery blond
then wait to be called.

But Geoff’s there first.

A beach rat, bites bits

from your panini plus
half the chips are gone.

If you chase him

he’s over the dunes
and far away.

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Souwester

Entombed in
chrome yellow
water proofs.

He tours the resorts

seeking wet campers
desperate for an end
to this driving rain.

Issuing terrifying
weather warnings
reports of cliff face
collapses, encircling
swarms of jellyfish.

Marriages end in disaster.

Axe attacks in caravans.
Jihadis arrive off shore.

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Ocean View Care Home

Our motto:

‘It’s kinder
to throw old
puffins off cliffs.’

‘The Admiral’ runs a tight ship.

Reveille at 06:30. Terrified elders
herded in, exercises, then ritual
humiliation – a daily talent show.

I was fooled by smiles in a photo.

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Encounters in a Travelodge

Here’s what happened.

The mother pimped her aged fourteen.

Locations were multiplying.

You must have noticed the hotels on link roads, convenient for reps and nearby
retail outlets.

Whether from guilt or impending prosecution, the mother hanged herself last
week – in the loft of a splendid newbuild.

What a performer I remember at Parents’ Evenings.

Assiduously querying levels.

Forensic on friendship issues, twitter assaults, possible moves to higher groups

(‘Lily needs stretching’).

What other details can I summon?

The dust as the Travelodges went up, the queues for identical food outlets.

Any morality going with the ring road.

Sleep walking in the midnight hum.

Degrees in Social Policy – and a refusal to judge – meant punters were

obviously priapic in the car park.

It’s important this self-expression, and it’s complicated.

I’ve seen them from Year Seven – devastating their joyful enthusiasm.

There’s pizza and white wine when the girls are out – the mother no stranger

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to it – why not? – surely seeing your child under an acrylic suit or bent over a
trouser press – the images – better sex hadn’t been invented –

her only objection, ‘some were Asian.’

It was all so recent now they’re gone.

So then it gets complicated.

The girl grows up – memories and material.

Surely of use…Creative Writing?

(I have walked my garden in the September dusk,

aflame,
an English pastoral of suburbia in golden rays.)

Back to this – no judgment – the material is all – youth’s energy to overcome

then beget.

I keep her photograph in my classroom.

She looks late-thirties (actually mid-teens).

The local social workers…forming a religion in her name…it was easy to have
known her…fantasies of protection…a fist fight seen outside KFC…winding
down the window…I almost asked (say that I did)…‘Everything ok
Charlotte?’…this town has too many roundabouts…we were gone but I saw
her…dragged by the hair…I emailed to report it on Monday.

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In a doll’s house

In dreams of living with pistols.

We all did, firing at white walls.

A child doll is brought to me:

tiny, dead-eyed, the only colour
blood up its nose. Then cradled,

her body emerging in warmth;

‘pink-budded life is too simple.’

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