to exist regardless of recognition;

acceptance or turning away being

only of value according to

each life ‘s unique metre.’ answered

the youth – or something similar –

whereat the astonished phantasm, purring ,

gave off pheromones that

turned part of him to

stone. ‘Miaou, ‘ she uttered, that

being vernacular for: ‘Mount me,

big boy.’ “But then,” he

told her, in media res:

‘That being so, none but

myself can judge ~what this

….O!”He became incoherent, mistaking

vast devastation for high excitement,

subsequent catatonia for satiation:

had he looked back as

he walked away

and noticed the quick petrifaction

he would have felt only

smugger and whistled, sauntering along

the country road to Thebes.

Pigs are despised by much of humankind,

regarded as disgusting, gross in habit,

dirty, smelly, lazy, and completely

lacking in all finer sensibilities.

Much like you and me.

They are, however, tolerated.  Kept apart from

upright humans in pig ghettos they do nothing

productive, don¹t go to work or earn a living.

They wallow and they eat, copulate when they can

and shit themselves.

Feel familiar?

This is the tale of a pig called Ham

(his real name, actually, was Colin);

and like all pig tails, there’s a twist in it,

at the end. And in the middle. And at the beginning -

in fact the whole tale’s pretty twisted, but then

Colin – I mean Ham – was a pig.

Now, like most pigs Ham was misunderstood

most of his tragically short life. His Mum said

“Colin, why ever do you want to be a pig?”

His Dad said “Can¹t you get a proper Job,

or get the dole and nick stuff, like yer mates?”

Colin just grunted; behind his piggy eyes

there was a dream of truffles.

So one day Colin – Ham – became a pig.

What a day!

One moment he’s an ordinary bloke,

as far as you could tell, and then Kerpow!

he’s turned into a pig. Well, poor bloke,

it could happen to anyone,

I mean, there but for the grace of God,

know what I mean?

Know what I mean?

So Ham became an outcast. He left home

and moved into the local sty. And there

he found it wasn’t bad.  Regular meals,

the company of lots of other pigs,

and no decisions!

What to wear? No problem

When to go to bed? No problem!

When to get up? No problem!

What to drink? No problem!

What to think? No problem!

Recognise it?

Anyway, Ham loved it.

And he met

a pig-ette

and they fell in love.

And Ham loved her, in his piggish way,

and I guess she must have loved him back, because….

but I’m getting ahead of myself.

So far everything’s gone according to pattern,

allowing for Colin’s amazing sudden transformation into Ham the pig.

Now comes the nasty part.

It was Christmas eve in the pighouse,

the snow was falling thick,

a lump of ice slid down his neck

and nearly froze his ….

No.

Then one foggy Christmas eve

Santa called to say

Ham, Shem and Japhet (they were the pigs on duty)

There’s a hold up at the off licence on the corner!

So off they go, hot-trot ting it to Unwins

where a couple of punks are executing a seasonal robbery.

Imagine the scene.  The artificial snow’s

thick on the window, framing the bottles of cheap whisky,

and a brightly coloured cardboard Santa.

Inside, the punks have the frightened storekeeper at gunpoint.

In leaps fearless Ham, grunts:  “Make my day,scum”.

One of the punks turns round and says to Ham:

“Have an early Christmas present, pig!”

BANG!

Next day was Christmas day.

Some of the nurses wore paper hats,

and paper chains criss-crossed the ward,

and the quack by Ham’s bed was reading a piece of paper.

“Hey, Doc,” said Ham, “Tell me what I got?”

“You got paraplegia.” said the doc.

“Is that like scrabble?” asked Ham.

“More like Trivial Puruits.” said the doc.

“But that’s boring and goes on for ever.” said Ham.

Oh dear! Poor Ham.

He’s paralised

And he learns a lot of new songs,

Like -

“Nobody wants a paraplegic copper.”

and -

“It’s hard to be macho in a wheelchair.”

and -

“Who’s going to take you home tonight, Kathleen,”

But,

meanwhile

something else has been going on. Every cloud

has got a silver lining, Don’t you agree?

Our Ham has lost

sensation and motor ability from his belly button down,

bladder control

bowel control

and he can’t get it up any more,

But,

HE’S BECOME A NATIONAL HERO!!!

Yes,

the papers are full of it.

Ham’s a second Jesus!

You’d think Christmas was to celebrate Ham!

The journalists have made our pig a hero.

“Plucky pig paralysed by punk’s pistol!”

“Saddleback’s seasonal supermarket sacrifice!”

“Hail to hero Ham!”

And Ham vows a piggy vow that wows the media:

“I won’t give up until I trot again!”

They love it.  Double, treble-hero Ham!

Poor Ham.

We all make ourselves that promise, but we’re not all media heroes,

and we quietly or not so quietly come to terms

with the fact that we won”t.

Yeah?

But not Ham,  He was a pig,

famous throughout the land for bravery,

Would he give up? Never,

Well, we all say that, don’t we?

But, poor Ham, could he give up?

Not and stay a pig.

Whoever heard of a paraplegic pig?

The senior pigs certainly hadn’t, and they told him so,

That’s not an easy one to take, is it?

Moreover,

Ham’s brave fight to trot again

had captured the heart of the tabloid-reading people.

Business-people sent in cheques, schoolkids

did sponsored walks, pensioners went hungry

to raise enough for Harn to get a cure.

But there isn¹t one, is there?

And Ham was in deep trouble.

Nobody knows how long Ham carried on

after he’d given up hope.

Nobody knows how long he acted out his public part

after he knew it wasn’t going to work.

Nobody knows.

But what we do know is this.

He stopped seeing his pig-fiancee.

He stopped seeing his mates,

He got withdrawn and bitter.

One day

in his nice, lonely, adapted bungalow,

he blew his head off with a shotgun.

Poor Ham,

Let’s have a moment’s silence for our departed pig comrade,

But…….

These things happen.

If not everyday

then often enough not to be remarkable

and if the story ended there I wouldn’t have bothered to tell it.

No, there’s more –

the worst is yet to come,

Not for Ham -he’s well out of it;

but for us.

Because,

do you know what they said in the papers,

in those fucking papers that made Ham a hero?

They said

“Hero Ham’s Last Heroic Act.”

“Hero Ham’s last Heroic Act.”

And I thought,

as I collected all that day’s tabloids

with mounting horror,

“It” that makes Ham a Hero,

what does it make me?”

And I thought,

aa I looked at the pictures of dead Ham,

“They’re saying he’s better off dead!

So what do they think of me?”

I do not take kindly to consignment
to the Guard’s Van. Bridle and jib as I may
like a thoroughbred or a racing yacht
taut with identity

I am pushed up the ramp and
into a boarded emptiness where is no handhold
and little warmth in the evening of this
early spring day.

A different perspective is valuable to
a poet but it rankles, sharing with bicycles, and
any companions perched on the single
inadequate seat,

nowhere to urinate and at the mercy
of any weirdo beered up or reckoning a
cripple fair game on the late
train to London.

That it is a metaphor for the human condition
excuses nothing: I’d choose my own vantage
point from which to comment
or to rail

and the windows are small and unreachable;
trapped apart from my fellow travellers
I can interact only by acts of
rebellion: so

do not go unprotesting or without truth
into the Guard’s Van; do not forget even if – as
sometimes – you are fitted into First Class;
do not go docile;

the meek may inherit the Earth but first I
would arrive at a station unannounced, travel second
class, visit the bar, chat up strangers
and piss in a toilet.

The loggerhead turtle
returns to its beach,
the finch to its myrtle,
arbutus or peach,
each salmon and eel
finds its nursery stream,
but human we feel
by a face or a dream.

We unroll our charts
where we happen to be,
with only our hearts
for our compass, set free
from our gimbaling eyes
and our pinnacle souls
under volatile skies
for the wandering poles.

While at a word the Sun King’s whores
by satin sheets shed silken drawers,
the soldiers in his holy wars
laid bare-bummed girls on dirty floors.

Now doubtless this was most unjust
is it not true that Louis must
have in the ceremony of lust
envied that coupling in the dust?

And did he not perceive the waste,
pine for the more compelling taste
of greater need- the urgent act
performed in necessary haste?

And yet what soldier, with his will
drained by some common, casual Jill
wished Louis anything but ill
and envied him his harlots’ skill,

or when some quick, outlandish wench
had made his spastic thighs unclench
did not regret the slow and sure
sophistication of the French?