In a pristine world I’d delete the previous incarnation of this post. This was never an immaculate accommodation. Really, I ought to quit on the poem. Is it even a poem? But, I was never that guy. I would rather be continually defeated than give up.
Like, when we were kids, somewhere in the region of ten year olds, we’d play this version of King of the Castle on the slide down the park. One gang would attempt to hold the summit against all-comers. It was pure violence. It was an important contest. Once, Stephen C*** instigated this new method of defence, he pissed on the attackers. Most dived for cover, but not me. I climbed the ladder of the slide, clang rung by clanking rung, with a lively weight of urine hitting my head until I was king. I was the soggy, stinking King of the Castle. I proved nothing, but my perverse resolve.
Here is another attempt at The Stool Pigeon. It’s a thin and flawed poem, but.
THE STOOL PIGEON
Hiya. I’m Norman Cook. My pseudonym is Fatboy Slim.
I’m one of them superstar DJ fellas,
it’s likely you have grooved to some tune I produced.
Yeah, I was in The Housemartins in the Nineteen Eighties
(we had a number one with Caravan of Love, yay).
Just now, I am the feature spread in this colour supplement.
That’s me, photographed there, posed on the stairs
of my home on Hove’s mega-expensive Western Esplanade.
They love me in Brighton, they fucking love me.
I’m looking up, out of this shining page into the face
of a nobody, a nonentity. Who are ya? Whom are ya?
He’s hungover-tousled and dewy. And he’s taking a shit.
I am hearing every reverberation caused by his sphincter
and each thump-splash. Has this to be the price of fame?
I guess so. He has torn me from the magazine rudely,
ripped me out and wiped his arse with my visage.
I am sinking in effluence. Mate, show a little respect,
purchase a roll of Andrex. Matey, I’m big-time famous,
I’m a talent. I am a someone. And all I wanted was
to make the everyday folk aware of the strain,
the burden that celebrity puts on me and my family.