Hip Sounding arts presenter: It is a great privilege, a privilege even greater than the other privileges I have every week on the show, to welcome one of our greatest living poets. Meehawl O Flatuleach recently won the Dr Bob Greaseburner award for poetry for his latest collection ‘Voyages Through Bog Water.” Last year, he received the Tennessee Fried Cabbage Bursary of fifty quid and two free snack boxes for his performance piece entitled ‘Voyage Through My Granny’s Laundry.” He is currently poet in residence at Joseph Goebbels University in High Colonic, North Dakota. Your Excellency, may I call you that? Allow me to genuflect.
Great Poet: Eh, thank you.
Presenter: The deep spirituality of the Irish race has, I know, always been a preoccupation of yours, along with bog water and your Granny’s laundry. Can you offer an explanation as to why you are such a genius?
Great Poet: Well, poetry by its nature is such a mysterious craft, not readily explained to the beer guzzling plebs. There are, as my good friend Bono has said, no people so magnificently spiritual as the Irish, no race that has, through the greatness of its soul, created quite so many fantastically rich pop stars.
Presenter: Nor poets as wonderful as yourself.
Great Poet: Well, heh heh. You’re very kind.
Presenter: Not at all, to even passively breathe the recycled carbon dioxide that has emanated from the mouth of one such as yourself is a privilege granted to very few presenters. Could you, would you just possibly adorn the ears of our unworthy listenership with something from ‘My Granny’s Laundry.’?
Great Poet: Certainly. It will, alas, have to be a short reading. I normally need to lie down for about three hours before attempting to recite, but your station didn’t seem to have a complimentary bed ready.
Presenter: Oh, I do apologise. Foul cutbacks, damn them, out, out damned spot. Oh, they are bean counters made out of stone…
Great Poet: No, no. It’s all right.
Presenter: No really, it’s too much. I wish we kept some kind of ceremonial sword here in the studio, I’d commit seppuku right here and now.
Great Poet: Ah, you must be a bit of a poet yourself.
Presenter: Really? Do you…? [The luminosity of reflected glory makes him unable to speak or breathe. He falls to the floor.]
Great Poet: Oh, right. Well. [He clears his throat, and after a pause of about three minutes, begins to declaim in a trance like voice, something akin to a Buddhist monk in the throes of a paracetamol overdose.]
“old woman’s sheets, livid with carbolic scent
My fourteen year old nose delves, delves
Too quickly and too deeply.
I am drowning in the vast murky spaces
Of your vast laundry basket
Oh open the lid, oh open the lid.
Oh let me breathe, oh let me breathe.”
Muffled voice from floor, regaining consciousness: That was absolutely wonderful.