A little bit about Yoon Yong

It has taken me longer to get this done than I promised. I started writing it just before I was due to move to Exeter. I am beginning to settle in here. But Jeju & Korea are never far from my thoughts.


Yoon Yong as both hero & poem germinated together. I had read Trevor Joyce’s The Immediate Future published online at Smithereens Press & though it has nothing much in common with Yoon Yong it burrowed the nascent idea to write a narrative poem.

The poem was to be unbroken originally, heavily abstracted & more suggestive of a clear plot than acute enough to actually have one. I recoiled from this. Yoon Yong was persuasive, she wanted to be rendered.

My initial conception had begun from a lack of intrepidity. I was & remained & still am concerned that this could all be misconstrued by the current climate of criticism toward the stale pale male. But writing is about a certain willingness to challenge yourself. In tandem with this, I had direct experience of not only Jeju, but also of Korean women married to English men: I was in such a marriage & it was going badly.

Yoon Yong is not my wife & I am not the belittled husband. The characters are completely fictional. But the loss of identity that Yoon Yong is struggling to get a handle on, is not. It was something I felt as someone who was speaking less English. My wife & I did not know each other’s language to a refined enough standard that there was absolute understanding between us. This created tension. So the germination of Yoon Yong’s identity crisis was a fictional realization of my own & my wife’s communicative struggle taken further. There are plenty of Westerners in relationships with Koreans who speak hardly a word of Korean & make a poor effort to familiarize themselves, or make a gestured attempt at understanding their partner’s culture. Too many Westerners in such relationships are prone to assume the superiority of their culture because of its standing in the world. Cultures are different & familiarization breeds understanding & understanding breeds acceptance. It isn’t always easy, but it is simply arrogant to assume superiority. Regardless of efforts to familiarize yourselves with each other, cultural barriers do assert their effects on the relationship. There need be extra vigilance & acceptance, & a certain amount of letting things slide, if such a relationship is to succeed.

Yoon Yong is complex, in large part because of her Westernization. Through the prism of her identity crisis, we find her using westernized habits of behavior, but using them to criticize the west, which is an irony caused by the replacement (or temporary exchange) of one cultural characteristic for another, more recently conditioned characteristic: she complains, which is not what I’d consider a Korean attitude; Koreans tend to keep shtum about anything worth complaining about, rather opting to do something productive. In the opening poem, Yoon Yong exemplifies this critical attitude:

Nor fall in line with the cultural stereotype like
young couples taking in-flight selfies | nuzzled

in the crease of one another’s elbows | dressed
in couple-clothes & silly hats—they look inter-bred |

arms numb with romance.

My ex-wife would not see any point in criticizing people for something this shallow. But by thinking this way, Yoon Yong becomes an individual, her isolation from both cultures comes into focus.

Why I didn’t use my own marriage, was owing to it not being challenging enough, moreover it felt impossible to make it interesting. By weaving the fictional with the experiential, I could materialize a much more coherent & cogent world.

Fictional poems using the individual poem to develop a narrative have always grabbed my attention. John Berryman’s Dream Songs are ever present, & ever pressing on me as an influence, an anxiety-of. But I am under no illusion where I am as a poet, career-wise.

In addition to Berryman, Roethke’s Meditations of an Old Woman is something of a precursor, if loosely. 

Who is Yoon Yong?

The name Yoon Yong is simply one of my favourite Korean names. I have only met one woman with this name. Each character when written is almost a mirror of the other (윤용) but the mirroring is thrown by the ㄴ swapped for ㅇ. This is symbolic of her relationship with her husband & her culture(s)—she is so near to being balanced but that slight hitch is enough to discombobulate the balance: it has aural similitude to yin yang. In Marriage is crap Yoon Yong explains:

He still can't say my name correctly | (is that it?)
pronounces it | ironically as Yin Yang—how does he

 continually mistake the ‘i’ with ‘oo’ | which makes
 a deep ‘you’ sound—the ‘a’ with diphthong ‘eo’.
 He is an idiot of the rarest sort.
 It is panic at being confronted with alien
 forces beyond his control. I gave up on him getting
 it right | he calls me by my English (slave | lol) name
 Rose | which sounds ridiculous…
 I know the way out of a rose…

Her explanation of how to pronounce her name reveals a deep rooted, subconscious issue with “you”, an incongruity in not just his being taken out his cultural comfort-zone, but with her blind reluctance to sympathize with him; she knows well enough the difficulty of adjusting to new environments as we discover in Homesickness in Birmingham where the husband’s action of making her a pot noodle is both a foreshadowing of their strained relationship & also comfort to her. So the problem is established as each other: “you”. This is hyperbolically analogized as a slave name, which even Yoon Yong in her ire, realizes is “lol”.

The final line adds to the irony if the rose is a metonym for Englishness. She thinks she knows the way out, but her conflict suggests otherwise. The line is taken from Roethke’s Her Becoming, part of Meditations of an Old Woman. Where the rose is obviously seen as a labyrinth out of the subterranean depths of consciousness.

Language is a key element to understanding Yoon Yong. It is both her success in utilizing it & her failure to use it for the purposes she would prefer to use it for, which hint at her dissatisfaction. Yoon Yong’s precursor is Kim Seung-hee, a poet who writes about being a domesticated woman in patriarchal Korea. She writes poems on domestic boredom, children, pregnancy, films, dream, body, & all in a muscular, idiosyncratic style. Only Kim Seung-hee could be Yoon Yong’s precursor. It is her struggle & accepted failure to be a translator of Seung-hee that destabilizes her intentions & her confidence. There would be meaning to her existence if she were able to do this, so we must not be fooled by her examination of poet & translator in the poem There’s no need to be a poet (time is forgotten):

  It’s probably for the best I never became a poet
 or translator: a poet has the anxiety to write
 something new |to transmute so much mundanity
 into a coagulation of symbols that raises bpm
 —else they must make a life busy with happenings |
 dilemmas & so much heart ache & madness.
 The translator must be at the beck n’ call
 of this poet of happenings this force of nature
 prone to the altercations of time & the motions
 of weather with such acuity it makes my cells itch.
 & isn’t the outcome of the translator |jealousy?
 No permit by the public to be reckless & intense.
 The poet gets to be the eyes of God.
 The lodestone of the universe.
 The precious birth of atoms damming space & time.
 There’s no need for me to be a poet.
 I need to be plain & pleased
 with the me that I am. If I’m not what then…?

At the point where “time is forgotten” Yoon Yong makes an effort to forget her anxiety of influence. In the following poem More insight we find Yoon Yong in a laconic mood, where “There is so little effort needed to be alive | it’s mostly automated”.  Her insights on the poet & translator, encourage her to a state of “plain & pleased”, which turns out to be too direct, leading to dull, repetitious, just-being-sterility. But in almost the same lung of air, she hastens back into her critical habit: “Most people are still animals. Aren’t we beyond that? / “Man is not a beast” (thanks Kim Chi-ha). / Why does low intelligence equate to lower entropy?” Quoting Kim Chi-ha, she quotes a poet who was imprisoned for speaking out against the government of Park Chung-hee, Park Geun-hye’s father (note that Yoon Yong marched against Park Geun-hye in the December marches & was successful where Kim Chi-ha was imprisoned, perhaps she has taken for granted her power to alter fate).
Narrative Structure
I wince, but Yoon Yong is, at a structural level, a travel poem. The decision for this narrative structure was a simple one, if you understand who visits the island, & for how long. Koreans rarely spend more than a couple of days touring Jeju, as it is less than an hour’s flight from Seoul Gimpo Airport, & ticket prices aren’t exorbitant. Out of season, hire cars are relatively cheap, as is accommodation. The place became a vehicle for the passage of time, thus the narrative structure.
Using the sub-title enabled me to dissolve the time as Yoon Yong became more detached from her Seoul-life. Thus the passage of time moves from precision, to inexact, to not even thought about.
I have written many poems in Jeju about Jeju & my will to show the island through poetry would still not dissolve when it came to writing Yoon Yong. It is crammed with atmosphere. It really is an ideal place for a contemporary fiction on the dark night of the soul.
The poem is an invitation to a place. A place fraught with tension between an indigenous populace (of sorts) & an El-Dorado for mainlanders to get rich & most importantly, escape Seoul. For tourists Jeju is freedom from city landscapes. It is an unfamiliar landscape, with its foundation of scoria, its temperate & almost tropical climate in the summer & its white sand beaches & turquoise ocean, offer a taste of paradise—a paradise seen on digital billboards in the subterranean depths of the Seoul Metro.
I would often see women travelling alone in Jeju. Some were very young, perhaps testing the waters of independence, seeing how they’d get along with only themselves for company. It was a no brainer to have Yoon Yong alone, in an environment that symbolized freedom. The poem became a single soliloquy. But what is interesting about Jeju is that it is Korea, so Yoon Yong becomes a tourist in her own country (essentially) & so we have another contextual device alluding to her identity crisis.  
Why Yoon Yong will not be resurrected
Yoon Yong is a series & I do not see it as essential, nor am I curious to take her further than where I have gone. Yoon Yong had to break out of the loop she was caught in. She has. The weather of her psyche materialized actually & helped her make the decision she needed to make. You can assume Yoon Yong made the right decision. Leave it at that. The loss of her ring is the clearly symbolic sign she needed, which in collusion with her 2 days of dreaming & seeing, is not something to ignore. I leave to the reader to envisage Yoon Yong’s future.
Though Yoon Yong is done for me, the narrative poem isn’t. I wrote Yoon Yong without access to books. I had little for intellectual stimulus other than what I could forage from my reaction to my own imagination coupled & massaged by my experiences. With access to a larger pond of ideas, I am certain I can construct a not necessarily more complex, but certainly a different & potentially better informed characterization.
I am currently working into notes another Korean character, this time a young man, early twenties, who is very sensitive. He is not very good at making money. He is estranged from the particularities of the orthodox Korean manner. A photographer who is trying to evade his military service. His name is Pureum, which has an interesting meaning. Pureum, is the feeling you have when you are looking at a turquoise ocean, or a blue sky, or even an emerald. It isn’t the colour but the feeling toward the colour. Pureum is based on a young lad who worked for me in Korea. He is a friend of mine & I think his story, fictionalized, will provide me with ample material to write another series.
Despite a non-fiction foundation, the poem about Pureum will be a fiction. To write a fiction is not to lie. Terry Eagleton in How to Read a Poem explains that “to fictionalize, then, is to detach a piece of writing from its immediate, empirical context and put it to wider uses.” Bearing this in mind, if I write the truth it is biography, which would make it difficult to put signifiers to symbolic use, which provides the poet with opportunities to make the poem ambivalent, ambiguous, more literary, in short; the poem chews off more than it can bite. “Fiction instructs us in what we are to do with texts, not in how true or false they are.” Just because I fictionalize a person I know, does not mean the poem is full of lies. The poem will still  get something done, it may even, were the real Pureum to read it, reflect his character in a truthful way he recognizes, & if not, it may be that it provides a spur for him to reassess, or simply assess, the characteristics of the fictionalized Pureum in relation to what he understands about himself. As Shenandoah Fish considers in Delmore Schwartz’s story America! America! we cannot know ourselves accurately unless we add to this how everyone we know perceives us.
Due to the volume of interesting people I became acquainted with in Korea, it isn’t out of the question for me to write a number of these narrative poems. Here’s to hoping.

The weather keeps her

This is the final Yoon Yong poem. I am in the process of writing a proper analysis/epilogue about the poem, as requested by a couple of loyal readers. I hope to have it done by next week.

Thank you for reading these poems. If anyone who would like these poems sent to them as a whole, email me at danielpaulmarshall85@gmail.com & I’ll sort this out for you.

 The weather keeps her 
…As the clouds tear open like a nail ripping open a vinyl-house
the rain in sheets colour the landscape grey
—graphite thatching in the sketches Sarang makes.
Quickly the fields flood | biblical waters spewing onto the road
—from nowhere a mudslide crashes through a wall
colliding with her flank flipping the car into a farm’s culvert.
She recovers herself | wipes blood from her lip
& manages to wriggle free of her seat belt
stumbling into the knee deep mud | the reservoir of debris
that was the road—her hands cushioning her body's collision
with the mud which without her knowing | steals her wedding ring |
she is stranded
                          — why do I feel so free?...

Considering a line by Kim Seung-hee

It is worth remarking that “mense” is a shortening of menstruation, which I have heard Korean women, my ex-wife especially, say; however, I cannot further elucidate the reason, but can only speculate, if this is because menstruation is a difficult word, or if the shortening has become shorthand Konglish, thus the source becoming lost the molasses of cross-cultural slang. My ex-wife would refer to the dog being “on her mense.”

Kim Seung-hee is one of the finest poets ever & everyone should rummage her poetry from somewhere & read it.

 Considering a line by Kim Seung-hee
…“The world of propriety properly exists”
except for me & Seung-hee.
I’d put a blowtorch to nature.
“You can’t spell immense without ‘men’.” Fuck off.
You can’t spell it without mense too.  
But how best to translate “dangyeon” in this context
: propriety | naturalness | rightness | common sense | a matter of course?
It is more felt than describable—utterly personal.
“On the final night I saw a firefly exit the darkness”
is all I will say | the rest will be kept secret |
especially the… syncopated
squeak from somewhere in the dark vegetation |
the coarse whine of a puppy tied to a wall 
& the wind fidgeting in tightly zipped spaces
—then late sunlight like a genuflect hyphen | hurried clouds | blue | terrific
& the dreams that kept me awake…

Napping on a sea wall after midnight

Yoon Yong dreams.

Napping on a sea wall after midnight
…She steals a trampoline from a trim backyard
—carries it on her back | over
the spinal cord of the Taebaek mountain range
to the edge of the world (all signposted)
—looks out on a sea of shadows
teasing her vulnerabilities into fear
the like of which no one has ever known.
She wants to report it to the world | there is a “suggestions” box |
she brought herself to the brink
of what she can endure
—to tease fear out of life & life out of fear
in her own tense…

Library by the sea—Geumneung Village

As promised, more from Yoon Yong.

 Library by the Sea— Geumneung Village
…An outdoor library with little wooden cubes
painted in shades of the sea & glass doors that hold 2 or 3 books
—sand | pomegranate red & grass | 
the glass doors with smooth wooden knobs
& little bronze hasps | handmade chairs to sit & watch the sea
—Biyang island like a turtle | drinking sun.
Yoon Yong’s in Geumneung Village reading
a copy of Wordsworth’s Complete Works
—I couldn’t find my stride with English poetry | yes
I know the cadence of the iamb when it runs
but never felt its natural measuring of speech.
“The cloying decorum like a William Morris showroom”
as Dr. Stiles put it | fell on my deaf ears.
To me it sounded like a mechanized fuck
: the man on top plowing away
while the woman takes
“a pounding for king & country”
—the continuity of man breasting for Homo Spiritus…

Her daughter Sarang (Love) appears in a dream

Finally pulled my thumb out & turned my computer on. So many books to read. Here we have Yoon Yong, mothering doubtfully, exposing her flaws through the flesh she has produced, as the image she produces in her dream. The biological aspect through the child image, becoming psychological to tell the identity where it falls into error. Something like that. I may have got mothering, feminism, love, dream, psychology, all of it wrong, but I could only persevere with the direction I felt, in essence, the most interesting for Yoon Yong as a fiction. Where I fall into error I have my intuitions, but I’d be more than pleased to be pointed out where else.

Her daughter Sarang (Love) appears in a dream
…“How many died of preventable ailments
because of a belief in transcendentalism?”
Her daughter with an adult’s voice
exposing flaws explaining where I steered myself wrong
what I could have done better | differently
—euphemisms | apothegms she couldn’t possibly know
at her young age—I scribbled notes but…
the pen contained only UV ink.
Motherhood is impossible | I worry continually
: I don’t want my Love to grow up to be someone I hate.
Everyone says “it just comes to you | it’s natural.”
I kept telling myself to love
this jaundiced looking ball of wool
& rolls of skin that cackled like a pocket radio.
The primitivism of it suckling hungrily at my swollen nipple
—I wanted to perform the ritual so badly
but it made clear to me how tainted | how cosmopolitan I was
: breast feeding repulsed me | it felt so animal.
Gravid | I pictured my belly’s contents
lift me out my life like a blimp filled with helium & confetti |
rousing me from my apathy like smelling salts |
out my very self—climbing | climbing out | skyward.
I couldn’t stomach Korean food during my pregnancy |
not even the postpartum seaweed soup rich in iron |
the olfactory idiom & lilting made me nauseous
—I craved quiche or omelet | anything yellow… 

A quality insight from Mrs. Fish

A quality insight from Mrs. Fish

“Mrs Fish had concluded her story by saying that it was a peculiar but an assured fact that some human beings seemed to be ruined by their best qualities.”

This is one of the concluding paragraphs of Delmore Schwartz’s America! America!
An insightful paradox from Shenandoah Fish’s mother, a women all the details on the ins & outs of the neighbourhood’s characters. Our instinct tells us qualities enable achievement. However, we also have this underlying sense (instinctual?) of what she means.
Mrs. Fish is referring to Sidney Baumann, the son of Mr. Baumann, a self-made door to door insurance sales man & Russian immigrant, popular in his neighbourhood, trusted, a strong work ethic, thrives in groups. A man who believes in America because it equates in his mind to opportunity; he is living proof of it, in fact. It is unthinkable to a man with his history to miss out on this opportunity, even if it was originally founded on mostly hope. We admire his dutiful character. Why wouldn’t we?

His son Sidney is spoilt. He is informed, to a media standard. He thinks he is owed something. He is finicky about what he wants to do with his life. He is a snob, lazy. His mother praises this as a “sensitivity to the finer things in life.” It is due to Sidney being able to fall back on the security of his family that mean his best qualities (his good upbringing) struggle, if not outright fail, to improve him.
This is a tough paradox to solve. It is the duty of a family to raise a child well, to see their needs are met, to instruct by example, which is what the Baumann parents do. They are pious, well mannered, respected, well-off but not excessively wealthy, they understand value & worth & they want only what they think is best for their children. Regardless, these qualities are not transferred satisfactorily to their son. In fact, he is more the inverse of their best qualities.

Mrs. Fish’s insight might be re-worded as, some people are ruined by their parents’ best qualities. Of course Mrs. Fish I doubt could possibly believe such a thing, Shenandoah is after all jobless, drifting aimlessly.

Let’s say you are part of a gang of intellectuals, a variety of people who share conversation & wine in common as the group do in Schwartz’s story The World is a Wedding.
Sidney is among them. During a comparison of contemporary America & Depression era America, the subject turns to the presidential family & the natural inclination of Trump to pamper his children by whatever means, even if they are illegal & morally questionable methods that endanger his credibility, like… say… quickly passing through business-trade opportunities for his daughter before closing them to everyone else (wink wink).
You ask Sidney:
“Does Ivanka & her siblings owe their father anything for sticking his neck out?”
Sidney replies:
“We rebel against our parents because of what they expect from us. It isn’t just love, it is a debt of gratitude. We are never, & never will any human being in the future of humanity, ever be offered the choice of being born.” Somewhat cryptic, but I think we get the jist. Even if we rebel our parents owe us, we owe them nothing for their choices.
I tell him that years ago I read a silly book by Michael Talbot called The Holographic Universe. A hodge-podge of enlightened pseudo-science & human potential, LaLa land rubbish.
There was talk of reincarnation in the book, but the system outlined, hypothesized that we choose what will be reincarnated as, so that the soul might increase its knowledge. This system enabled the soul, encouraged by will, to quest after ultimate understanding.
As a thought-experiment (which is about as useful as Talbot’s book could ever be), let’s pare his outline back a little & say, before birth we are told a little (from the environs of this pre-life state outside time & space) about what to expect from life. On the sheer scale of experience we would, ignorant, be told of the polarities that are very real pressures in life; the creeping dearth of our environment, natural beauty, how difficult a definition of nature is & the polarities this creates; the easiness of loss, the fortuity of gain; love & how its power can both leave us in rapture & despair;— in essence, how easily, based on sensory inputs beyond our control, our mood may elevate, accelerate, decelerate, evaporate & all the bits n’ bobs & in-betweens.
Wouldn’t it seem sort of overwhelming? Would the necessary consequence of this information be a ubiquitous, unquestionable, yes?

Sidney nods in agreement & jumps in…

“There is no warning, no expectation. Life is bull-rushed upon us (this is where I say, ‘this is the reason babies cry on exiting the womb’, but I don’t believe that). For not falling into line with the narrative we are incorporated into, for not meeting expectation, we are labelled disappointing.
This may not be explicit (conscious), but it is implicit (sub-conscious) as our will to independence exposes. Independence is not instinctual in humans, not if we are coddled too long, if the nest is too warm & mother-bird never teaches us the value of aerodynamics & daddy the skill of the hunt. This is why Shenandoah’s father instructed my father to send me to Chicago, out into the world to stand on my own 2 feet. It failed. The safety net was firmly secure; already I had passed the formative years without being acceptably formed for the struggles ahead.”

Sidney owes his parents nothing. He is their responsibility; if he was a mistake, he is a mistake they made & therefore must take responsibility for. If you buy an expensive object, you take care of it. A child is not an expensive object; a child (being human) is an anomaly of nature, a thing without equal in nature or objects, something that is not to be brought into the world if it must meet expectations, if it must be a slave to the ideals & expectations of parents. The world changes as the child grows & their world is not the world of their parents. A child is not an insurance policy against mortality.
I read (or watched) somewhere that the American people are collateral for the exorbitant national debt (a conspiracy); regardless of whether this is a fiction or not, it is a terrible thing to consider even the remote possibility of.

In the final paragraph of Schwarz’s story Shenandoah Fish says into the mirror that
“No one truly exists in the real world because no one knows all that he is to other human beings, all that they say behind his back, and the foolishness which the future will bring him.”

Shenandoah is as insightful as his mother. His insight illustrates something of the absurdity of expectation in an indeterminate future. He also begs us to search for what we cannot see in ourselves, what we cannot know of ourselves, what others might see & how that could & should alter us & moreover, how we are, like Mr. Baumann, tied to people for a definition of who we are (consider this in the context of his profession: he is a door to door salesman).
Not having the full picture of ourselves how can we expect to know what is best for the breathing, breathless, hungry mistake (or choice) that we have made?

Right & wrong, are clear in many respects (aside from the exceptions to the rule, which I don’t like focusing on as they set a default go-to when dealing with generalizations & end up being used for one-up-man-ship in discussions) but don’t assume they’re always straightforward, there are immensely subtle, unregistered, slow burning conclusions to the actions we take.

(I’d like to add, I am not a parent, I do not believe in these ideas, they are simply ideas to be indulged, I don’t necessarily not believe them, they are not proved right or wrong, I am merely entertaining potentials.)

The Royal Wedding— a satirical short story

The Royal Wedding

In another dimension where fairness & justice is 5% above our own dimension’s…

Harry complains he doesn’t look good in red, it’s his hair. Moreover, why does he have to wear William’s same Irish Guard’s Mounted Officer’s uniform, he looks like a proper twat, why couldn’t he just go to Saville Row, buy some trad-swallowtails? The powder blue sash makes him look like a Miss(-placed) Universe contestant. William is 5 centimeters taller than Harry, so the uniform is too long in the arms & legs & makes it look like he has man-breasts, which is an abuse of the reality of his rower’s physique. William tells him to stop being a whingey tosser. Grandmother is cutting corners, gone stingy in her crepuscular years & is unhappy (& probably jealous) he is marrying a movie star who snogged Russel Brand (who Queen Lizzie thinks is well fit).

William got a call saying MI5 got a tip that a group of men from the Windrush generation (now homeless, jobless & hungry for revenge) are planning on kidnapping the bride & replacing the princess-to-be with their own Windrush beauty who, veiled, would surprise the moody prince, (already peeved with his baggy Mounted uniform) with a wet kiss on the smacker. Too cartoonish to be probable, Harry screeches, off with their heads anyway, he thinks he’s well funny, but he ain’t. He’s just another royal wanker.

William’s hired a clapped-out 2 door, mint coloured Ford Cortina to drive Harry & his manacled bride to the church. It’s got mother-of-pearl interior, & a CD player so he can listen to hip hop on the way to church— it’s well flash, says William to try to cheer his brother; the whole things been done up to the bolllox by a top pro off TV.

Harry thinks tit for tat, but William reminds him that Queen Lizzie needs her golden chariots pulled by half score of stallions &… the jealousy, nothing to be done of the jealousy or her tight as fuck fist. It isn’t William’s fault he got a better wedding than his loser brother. Cuz I look like dad probably, he explains.

Harry blubbers, he has a snotty nose. Wishes he had a proper job now. Wishes so many things. Wishes his brother would just shave his head. Wishes his dad wasn’t an enormous twat. Wishes he had a bigger thingy. Wishes he could come out…as an atheist. Wishes he could wear a toga whenever he want to. Wishes he was naked on the front page of GQ with his middle finger up. Wishes…wishes…Wishes his family was better.

At least he’ll finally get laid on his honeymoon.
Yes! He pumps his fist into the air. Think about the week in Benidorm with his young wife, ***, all-inclusive hotel, 15 minute walk from the beach, lots of Jägermeister, hot-tub Jägermeister, no one to tell him he shouldn’t smoke Churchill cigars like a boss, English Breakfast every morning, milky tea & hand-jobs, O he does love hand-jobs. & he’ll get to touch her boobs, her fleshy puddings he calls them. He’s only imagined up to now, but he’ll get to touch. He ejaculates prematurely.

Makes a note to self: ask dad for Viagra. No. Better yet, just steal it, he knows where it is hidden anyway, top drawer, under the signed photo of Muammar Gaddafi, Dad’s favorite dictator, cuz he never ‘ad WMDs really, he was a pretty nice guy, made the best Waldorf salad dad ever had, made his own mayonnaise & had a walnut grove.
Dad said, him & Muammar would go out into the groves wearing Evel Knieval style crash helmets (provided by Muammar) & run as fast as they could (making Spitfire noises by vibrating their lips), head first into the walnut trees, & with baskets open-side up, well Sellotaped to their backs, collected the walnuts that rained down from their thuds. After frolics & snafu, lots of hugging, Muammar would have his bodyguards count them. Whoever won would get to pick a DVD from Muammar’s collection to watch after dinner.

In the crèche Prince Louis & George are picking each other’s nose & feeding it to their dog Lego Buster. They’ve got hold of an old copy of Penthouse (probably Camila’s, a hand-me-down from Prince Andrew) & are drawing devil beards on all the models & bullseyes round their mammaries. Lego Buster smells like dead feet blocking up a Midland toilet & has no teeth, as Queen Lizzie has an irrational fear of points.
They are being encouraged by Prince Albert, who is wearing a silk kimono (probably Queen Lizzie’s), on which he has glued (with wood adhesive), homemade epaulettes, the heads of 100 old toothbrushes, sawn off & attached to the shoulders of the kimono—I am sure Queen Lizzie was infuriated on discovering this, in fact she was & made him sleep in the kennels for a fortnight. He smokes a Korean pipe for staged-effect, does unexpected Great-Grandad farts which startle the 2 little boys & sound oddly like he is sighing & snoring at the same time.

Camila is listening to Stalin’s speeches on her iPod & gesticulating like a cross between Thatcher & somebody trying to shoo away a hungry wolf—rapt in Stalin’s didacticism she repeats to herself I am mad, bad & dangerous to know.

Charles is polishing his feet, trying to brush up on his Latin by reading Paracelsus & playing with a children’s chemistry set trying to transmute plastic into the Lapis Philosophorum & just causing a dreadful, stinking mess.

Meg’s electronic tag has an eight digit code & Wikileaks just got wind of it. It’s all over the Internet. Someone is scoundrel enough to go key it in. But where is Meg? In the Tower? In a dungeon? Mustn’t reveal this intrepid soul’s identity, they will have Meg free & back making shit films in the time it takes to say gimme a visa. They’re satellite-on-it. They’ll emancipate the poor darling from the evil royals.

Turns out the Secret Service have her in the back of an unmarked car. Our secret hero, cape-less, cap-less & O so brave— did I mention that? Smashes the window with a pillowed elbow, keys in the code from memory—no traces. Meg crawls through the broken window, gashes her secondhand dress & scatters with our secret hero, twists her ankle, but no problem, she yogas it back into road worthiness. No one saw a thing.

Wedding time. Where’s the bride? Harry in his baggy, brother-borrowed Irish Guard’s Mounted Officer’s uniform is getting nervous, biting the nails of his feet, took his boots off, more comfy. Queen Lizzie is losing her shit, sipping from a hip flask full of Horlicks & rum, for balance.

The tabloids have their cameras aimed at Harry’s berry blushed face, waiting for the 1st tear to rock n’ roll out his puffing eyes, he’s holding them boyo-tears back.

2 hours… 3… 4…5… Sounds of snoring. Merkel has read half of War & Peace. Macron is making daisy chains while Internet banking. Tony Blair & Boris Johnson, shirtless, arm wrestle & argue about Brexit & the possibility of South American trade agreements. Michael Gove is sticking decals on the pews, which state how Climate Change is Really here! Theresa May is regurgitating eggs benedict to feed the sparrowlings nesting in her hair & reading a book on politics 101. Jeremy Corbyn keeps telling everyone he can’t believe he even got an invitation. George Clooney is hitting on the brides maids. Elton John keeps combing his toupee & playing an imaginary piano. Ed Sheeran is trying not to cry in solidarity with his fellow ginger brother-in-hair-tone & wondering if he’ll ever get a girlfriend.
A group of homeless folk can be heard giggling outside & chanting, wedding cake & beer.

The vicar’s spiritual itch shows. He takes selfies with the altar boys. He’s over-eager to show-boat his marrying talents for ITV.

The secret service have all handed in their notice, shamefaced & now drinking cheeky Vimtos in a pub across the road—we had a good spell, they tell themselves. One drinks cyanide but somehow is unscathed, probably due to surviving that abortion his mom had.

Kate Middleton is trying to stop her son’s from setting the vicars alb on fire with cooking matches. Albert is reading Alesiter Crowley’s Book of Lies to confused teenagers, with Shine on you Crazy Diamond full volume crackling out his iPhone 4, stopping his reading when the line shiiiiinnnee on youuu craaaaazy diiiiamond comes round, altering it to his own Shinnnnneee on ya craaaaayyyyzzzeeeee baaasssstaaarrrddd— trying to inspire a revolution of consciousness among the teens, who just look mixed up & ashamed when Beelzebub doesn’t appear.

All the world leaders are choreographing a mass walkout to a decent Chinese buffet round the corner, they are getting hungry & fidgety & someone already ate all the tulips & lilies, or stole them as souvenirs— the Spice Girls look suspicious, an orange powder smothered round their acapella gobs.

The crowd snickers so the royal family can hear. Harry is blinded by camera flash as his first tear rock n’ rolls. Then he blubbers. Then he breaks down thumping his fist on the baptismal font. Screaming at 10 decibels, why God! why me! O take this beating heart of mine & fit it in a Ford Capri.

His sobbing is broadcast on big screens for all of London to see, nationalists sob into their Union Jack capes, flags, hats, whatever. But it can’t soak up the uncontrollable typhoon of sadness. People cry so much it causes tsunami waters, whole demographics washed away in the tide of their own salty death-wash. Millions dead. Millions & millions.
Should of stayed at home. Should have fed the homeless. Shouldn’t give a shit.

Wikileaks tipped off the homeless & the innocent. They made an ark out of inner tubes, rubber boats, match sticks, pigeon bones & little Union Jack flags all plugged up with chewed-up tobacco & magpie blood. Been making it for months. They sail off to new pastures. Pockets full of seeds & salmon sandwiches.

William pats Harry on the back & says don’t worry sport, we’ll get you another one, how about we put your dating profile back up on OK Cupid when we get home? I’ll let you use the Internet for an hour, alright, there, there. I’ll make you some cup-a-soup, your favourite, cream of chicken.

Meanwhile Meg is on the phone to Lucas Arts, or Disney (or whatever, what does she care) about a part in the next Star Wars film while drinking Guinness from the can.