Princes Street
by Ross McDiarmid
Sunrise, his imaginary cane holds fast as his wreck orbits, almost rolling, not quite standing. His head cast back on a tired neck, mouth wishing-well wide, forcing out the coins in cackles.
With a swig and stumble the Riverbank Sage drools his teachings down the grotty bars of his chest, fingers waving wild at the parting river of eyes, muttering, “Let my people go”.
His trembling head makes steady progress up the flooded canyon of shear glass and great nets of mesh fence. He sees the shops as they are, rows of prone giants -those warnings long forgotten, lessons un-learned- their gaping mouths spewing and swallowing in tidal breaths the marching mutton and lamb. Each one spilling out dressed more individually than the one before. “GARDYLOO!”, cheers the Sage.
Through his looking-glass he spies a ‘feather star’. All of his muscles ripping to their limit to ensnare this rare floating seed. With one last rasping grasp he cradles the captured wish. As he falls he glimpses Edinburgh’s stalwart castle through the haar; spires with scores of flags sailing on a high wind, a stone sanctuary, the city's stronghold, a fleeting fantasy before the flat of the floor.
Lying now beneath the locust legs, the wish still nestled safe, the Sage witnesses strutting Snow Whites attended by scurrying dwarves, profligate Knights with blood stained swords, and insidious Rapunzels trailing teasing tassels. The flesh boiling down in a bubbling cauldron to the mere birds and bees - vanity and profanity - this is bliss?
Tears are foaming behind his red eyes, his body convulses, choking and retching. He slopes on shaking struts, face hanging over the reflective pool of bile, facing him a Jester wearing a face forgotten. The fragile wish smashed, and he sees it . . . the roach of an old joint. “Better than serving in heaven”, he says sparking. And where are all the King's Boys to help put Humpty Numpty back on his feet? They are creeping, all stalk-eyed and sideways like fiddler crabs, back-boneless, each with one giant wrist.
“Here Princesses, HERE! Why so eurly oot ay bed? Eurly bird gits the worm is tha it?” gobs the Sage.
“.......”
“Here Princesses, ave got a pea in ma pockit tha'll keep yoos up aw night”.
“.......”
With no swords drawn the Sage reclines back supine below the mist of pure imagination.
His visions are of a great insect-like plague of 'CATERPILLAR' growing fat, chewing through the ancient buildings of stone, exhuming the main street, leaving their tracks without trams. But only foul things live in the deep places, gemstone bread-crumbs lead only to Balrog's.
“If you want to view
Paradise,
simply look around
and view it”,
he drones, while sinking his sighing eyes back through the fog, to the failing fairy-tale of glossy beings air-brushed in hurricanes, following their rainbows in the land of muzak louder than song. Where they don't wear their ears, but everyone seems so happy.
Over his shoulder he hears a swarm on the Coke with Lemon giveaway, a million teeth throwing back freebie potions in Jeykll-like glee.
“HERE! HERE, A had a story tae say!”
Light fingers clasp at his other shoulder, a lonely one-eared charity worker greets the Sage's slipping face.
“A'm being ironic”, proclaims the Sage.
“........”
“Well a'm definitely makin some sort ay statement, ken?”
“.......”
The listening side of her face has gone, sneaked away, wishing only to hear thicker pockets, as they plod too close.
“Here, ah bet, if ya look, thir's an age-limit on tha dress o’ your's?”, he says dreamily. But she is gone now, off charging down in bounds the ones with dull eyes.
“WOLF, WOLF!” he cries.
“.......”
Clawing himself world-weary from the torrent to his grimy alcove, whispering,
“Where have all the gid Sage gone,
For, well a day! their date was fled
His tuneful brethren were all dead;”
Back in the hovel on the river’s bank, his shelter from the storm, he sees the spoilt harvest of ballot-papers filling the gutters like snow, the last foul hopes avalanching down the garden hills. Holding his drip-dried medicine bottle above the drought in front – the senseless choice.
“Paper, paper everywhir but no a drop tae drink”. He says in shallow breaths. His sad shadow cut in the dirt, a nick forgotten through time.
“Cud ye no spare a few coins?”
He pleads to the ones that walk-by, that do as they wish, their plastic-bags filled with pounds of flesh ready for payment to the Fad Factory.
Kicking rocks back at the raging river as it digs its own grave, his knowledge plagues, as he only wishes for bliss in this natural disaster.
“NO!” Shouts the Sage, “Keep yir fuckin golden ticket”.
Magic may have left his veins and there may be no dragons left to chase but the Sage is still courageous.
He draws a crowd and lifts his arms ready for the fall, the last one to take the plunge, and our ever clicking heels wish away the Sage. Gone and long forgotten.
With a swig and stumble the Riverbank Sage drools his teachings down the grotty bars of his chest, fingers waving wild at the parting river of eyes, muttering, “Let my people go”.
His trembling head makes steady progress up the flooded canyon of shear glass and great nets of mesh fence. He sees the shops as they are, rows of prone giants -those warnings long forgotten, lessons un-learned- their gaping mouths spewing and swallowing in tidal breaths the marching mutton and lamb. Each one spilling out dressed more individually than the one before. “GARDYLOO!”, cheers the Sage.
Through his looking-glass he spies a ‘feather star’. All of his muscles ripping to their limit to ensnare this rare floating seed. With one last rasping grasp he cradles the captured wish. As he falls he glimpses Edinburgh’s stalwart castle through the haar; spires with scores of flags sailing on a high wind, a stone sanctuary, the city's stronghold, a fleeting fantasy before the flat of the floor.
Lying now beneath the locust legs, the wish still nestled safe, the Sage witnesses strutting Snow Whites attended by scurrying dwarves, profligate Knights with blood stained swords, and insidious Rapunzels trailing teasing tassels. The flesh boiling down in a bubbling cauldron to the mere birds and bees - vanity and profanity - this is bliss?
Tears are foaming behind his red eyes, his body convulses, choking and retching. He slopes on shaking struts, face hanging over the reflective pool of bile, facing him a Jester wearing a face forgotten. The fragile wish smashed, and he sees it . . . the roach of an old joint. “Better than serving in heaven”, he says sparking. And where are all the King's Boys to help put Humpty Numpty back on his feet? They are creeping, all stalk-eyed and sideways like fiddler crabs, back-boneless, each with one giant wrist.
“Here Princesses, HERE! Why so eurly oot ay bed? Eurly bird gits the worm is tha it?” gobs the Sage.
“.......”
“Here Princesses, ave got a pea in ma pockit tha'll keep yoos up aw night”.
“.......”
With no swords drawn the Sage reclines back supine below the mist of pure imagination.
His visions are of a great insect-like plague of 'CATERPILLAR' growing fat, chewing through the ancient buildings of stone, exhuming the main street, leaving their tracks without trams. But only foul things live in the deep places, gemstone bread-crumbs lead only to Balrog's.
“If you want to view
Paradise,
simply look around
and view it”,
he drones, while sinking his sighing eyes back through the fog, to the failing fairy-tale of glossy beings air-brushed in hurricanes, following their rainbows in the land of muzak louder than song. Where they don't wear their ears, but everyone seems so happy.
Over his shoulder he hears a swarm on the Coke with Lemon giveaway, a million teeth throwing back freebie potions in Jeykll-like glee.
“HERE! HERE, A had a story tae say!”
Light fingers clasp at his other shoulder, a lonely one-eared charity worker greets the Sage's slipping face.
“A'm being ironic”, proclaims the Sage.
“........”
“Well a'm definitely makin some sort ay statement, ken?”
“.......”
The listening side of her face has gone, sneaked away, wishing only to hear thicker pockets, as they plod too close.
“Here, ah bet, if ya look, thir's an age-limit on tha dress o’ your's?”, he says dreamily. But she is gone now, off charging down in bounds the ones with dull eyes.
“WOLF, WOLF!” he cries.
“.......”
Clawing himself world-weary from the torrent to his grimy alcove, whispering,
“Where have all the gid Sage gone,
For, well a day! their date was fled
His tuneful brethren were all dead;”
Back in the hovel on the river’s bank, his shelter from the storm, he sees the spoilt harvest of ballot-papers filling the gutters like snow, the last foul hopes avalanching down the garden hills. Holding his drip-dried medicine bottle above the drought in front – the senseless choice.
“Paper, paper everywhir but no a drop tae drink”. He says in shallow breaths. His sad shadow cut in the dirt, a nick forgotten through time.
“Cud ye no spare a few coins?”
He pleads to the ones that walk-by, that do as they wish, their plastic-bags filled with pounds of flesh ready for payment to the Fad Factory.
Kicking rocks back at the raging river as it digs its own grave, his knowledge plagues, as he only wishes for bliss in this natural disaster.
“NO!” Shouts the Sage, “Keep yir fuckin golden ticket”.
Magic may have left his veins and there may be no dragons left to chase but the Sage is still courageous.
He draws a crowd and lifts his arms ready for the fall, the last one to take the plunge, and our ever clicking heels wish away the Sage. Gone and long forgotten.
Photography by Rebecca Brown.
©' The Treacle Well 2013