If I explained

If I explained then the magic would disappear

now I could continue in poem form

If I did explain then you would think less of me

so it is better to retain the mystery

i have to slap on Movelat pain killed gel right now

i wish i didn't have to bore you with that fact

chronic pain does wear you out

like a wind of sand chipping away at buildings

or waves washing the shoreline away

so you have to chose HOPE

just as the UAE satellite is named

and if you get to the end of The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker

in whatever language you'll learn about that too

I also thought about Aliens returning to visit us again

They thought we had hope as  we discovered Music

banging bones on the skulls of those we had just eaten

But the discovery of beat showed signs of hope

so we were left to evolve

now we if the Aliens returned today 25th July 2020

what would they see and think

people suing each other for fortunes

and what do they do with the money

do they donate 100% to charity, or 1%

because they were hurt so much by what the Press said

Suing seems to be a gravy train denying all Hope

I'd respect people more if they won then gave it all away

or maybe I'm just naive and old fashioned

so the waves of thoughts and ideas fall and rise and swell

But I need the Movelat gel  to finish its work

before I begin, as America sing to me from my smart speaker

so this is a chat, it won't appear in my books when I compile them

you can think for yourselves

now here's Michael and The Chink in The Wall

from 4.5 years ago, I went through a wall of my own then

I knew it when I finished writing this piece Jan 2016 according to my list

though that could just be the date I have it on my computer

and it's not copied from anybody, though obviously it refers to Dickens

I'm a dickens of a writer, not Shakespeare but you can argue about style

amongst yoiurselves

later today with the help of Movelat gel you'll get something else

and by the way Saudi, spread the word,

Michael Casey the fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham

can be read in Arabic too, just go search

now this old piece to keep you going.

Look for the Pathos too, there's always a bit of mirror in the piece

Michael and the Chink in the Wall ©

By

Michael Casey

Michael was all alone in the house, he was abandoned, left all alone with just the mice for company. He was the kitchen boy in the Master’s house, he’d fetch and carry and be allowed to sleep in a corner, just like a dog, but a dog would at least have a basket. He was actually the Master’s son, but when the pantry maid had died in labour, Michael was kept in the kitchen, the Master agreeing not to send him to the Workhouse, a promise he kept as the maid died before him.

Being the eldest, Michael should have inherited the house and the fortune, but he had been born on the wrong side of the blanket. The non bastard children were in fact very ugly, but the Master had married for a fortune, and not for love. Meanwhile Michael slowly rotted in the kitchen, while snotty noses enjoyed their Victorian life.

Michael would sit and dream on the cold flagstones, just shadows on the wall for company. Sometimes one of Charles Dickens’  stories would appear wrapped up with carrots or turnips. Michael loved Charles Dickens his stories were so good, what with the cliff-hangers, one day Charles Dickens would be famous. The cook just laughed, but she enjoyed listening to Michael reading out the stories while peeled the spuds. That was the only reason she had taught Michael to read, so she could entertain her, she had in fact invented Radio, minus the radio that is, Listen with Mother if you like. 

Every night the staff went to the attic to sleep while Michael shivered in a corner, it was a slow death of the spirit apart from Charles Dickens. Michael had to try and fall asleep before the kitchen fire went out, or he would not sleep at all, the cold being so bone chillingly cold.

There was a chink in the wall from the house next door and this was Michael’s tv, without the tv that is. For in the next house everybody was always happy and gay, the servants laughed and even danced. They had a good Master, their fire was always on, the Master liked a warm house, he had made his fortune in India so he liked a warm house.

If Michael squeezed himself against the chink in the wall he could hear the singing and smell the cooking, he could pretend he was with them in the warmth of company and of real warm. There was  actually a bit of heat coming from that chink in the wall, Michael loved that house and that kitchen, it was so full of life and joy.

At night Michael fell asleep mumbling the songs that he’d heard from the next door household. In the middle of the night he’d regularly awake, his toes numb with cold, his bum freezing too. So he’d get up and stamp around. Only shadows for company, the one candle in a jar his only illumination. Michael would hold the jar and press it against his body for warmth.

Even the shadows on the wall had pity on him, they would dance about and form faces of people dancing and talking, trying to amuse and console Michael. The very stones cried for him, shadows of tears fell. Michael loved their company in his daily Dark Night of the Soul, a shadow is great company if you have no friends, if you have to decide whether to burn Charles Dickens for warmth or save him so he can warm your soul. Such a choice, warmth of the spirit or warmth of the body.

The same shadows came night after night, they were in fact peopled by stories from Charles Dickens, if your body is so cold, then all that is left is the spark of soul. Or distant smells and laughter coming through the chink in the wall. So your imagination sees things in the dark, you see what you want to see in the cold and dark. You see Hope. You see Love. You see Laughter. You see dancing shadows.

The cook gave Michael a sweet, it was covered in muck and feathers, she’d found it in the street when she’d been to the butchers, a few weeks previously. She had only just remembered it. It was a present for being such a good boy. It was also a goodbye, Michael would be 9 next week so the Master had decided to let Michael find his own way in the world. Michael would have to leave.

The Master was going to buy a puppy for his legitimate children, Alpha the dog would need a space in the kitchen, Michael would have to leave to make room for Alpha the dog. A dog is a man’s, a Master’s best friend after all. The promise to the pantry maid had been kept, 9 years Michael had squatted, now he was man enough to find his own way in the world.

The Master ordered that Michael be locked in overnight and then in the morning when Alpha arrived Michael would be shown the door. Michael stuffed all the Charles Dickens in his pockets, he’s freeze one last night, but Charles Dickens would be part of his new life whatever and wherever that may be.

The walls wept, if only Michael could squeeze through the crack in the wall, if only he could sing and dance with the neighbours, they were having a Christmas Eve celebration. Michael fell asleep dreaming that very same dream. He was dancing and drinking punch, the maids all gave him a dance and a peck on the cheek. They all loved him, he was not the bastard son, unwanted and thrown out to make room for a  dog.

Michael danced and laughed all night long, he was so happy, a much loved member of the family. He was smiling in his sleep, clutching Charles Dickens in his hands. That was how they found him in the morning, curled up like a dog, but with a smile on his face, and Charles Dickens’ new story in his hand A Christmas Carol. Michael had died happy in his sleep. But how he got next door through a locked door nobody would ever know, not even the stones would tell. Sometimes all the love you need is a chink in the wall.