I’ll bet Tar Zan never swung through anything as awesome as this

I dreamed I was being chased by
whooping, trident-wielding native bandits
clad in loose grass skirts,
          myself wearing nothing but
          a diamond-studded fig leaf
          from the House of Dior, and
          a ruby red Patek Phillipe
          showing one minute to ten,
          almost closing time for
          the fashionable boutiques,
through verdant jungle thick with
redwood and chinaberry
deodar and blackbutt
coco de mer and dipterocarp
bunya bunya and rewa-rewa
mountian ash and more cedar than
any man would know what to do with

Chased through plush-carpeted pathways
inlaid with polished gold leaf patterns reflecting
the silvicultural setting in perfect haramoney

Past thorny thickets and spiky spinneys
which tickled the more tender parts
of my own glabrous bark

Then I caught sight of the familiar
grande croix de la tour de l’arabie and a
fleeting sense of relief ran through me
cos this place was none other than
my own adoptive town

And the sylvan erections
were the architectural marvels
of a brave and chivalrous new world

And the plush-carpeted pathways
were the beautifully manicured streets
paved with goldbrick baked in sun-fired kilns

And the spiky spinneys and thorny thickets
were the Brobdingnagian strip malls and strip
joints created for our sempiternal gratification

I was still petrified, though, cos
my ass was on the line and
we’re not used to dealing with
the criminal element out here in this
eminently laudable, soul-uplifting
feudatory safe haven, until I realised that
these bandits weren’t the murderous,
we-don’t-need-no-stinkin-batches
type of bandit at all,
but credit card debt collectors
chasing me down for the minimum
monthly instalment, failing which
late-payment penalties would be applied

I stopped dead in my tracks,
about-faced, and tried to distract them
with vague promises of passing on to them
long lists of potential cardmembers,
but they weren’t buying
cos they weren’t whining
call-centre fodder
trawling for business,
but repo types with microlithic hearts
and pastel blue eyes devoid of light
and the milky white of human kindness

So I flung my fig leaf high into the air
and feinted to the right before
zooming off into the night,
leaving them fumbling with the balls
they’d latched on to,
which weren’t my balls at all, ha ha,
but christmas tree trinkets left over
from Hogmanay slash New Year’s Eve
          (and saved for next Walpurgisnacht)
which last time around was
around the same time as that festival
of beastly feasting we Muslims call
Idol Adda or something like that, no?

(minos - february 2007)