(Inspiration comes from funny places. Here is something I wrote about a recent holiday. I kinda like it, hope you do too. Look for it in a future Filmic Cut, land of other poetry like Sense. – OJ)

I am off to Cornwallace

To seek myself a Cart

Were it dwells on wet shores

Where my story, will soon start


I travel from the Wyc

Upon steam-powered trap

And there, I shall decamp

Into the mighty Das Cap


The journey is a-long

Five hourlings, some say

And I listen to the calls

“Buy tickets, check for delay”


I enter the next rail-beast

It’s belly full of woe

Every rest is taken

To Cornwallace, we all go


Pray luck, I secure a berth

Brief haven amongst the crush

And so, the freight departs

Cutting through the land in rush


As we plunge through the day

The hordes begin to yield

Placated by blurred greens

Tower of tree and docile field


My salvation doth come

With an early depart

Sources say the Red Ruth

Has knowledge of the Cart


The travellers soon grow thin

As we pass through the Mouth

Past Lisgard and the Par

Flowing ever further down south


Imagine my surprise

As upon my landing

There was nowt of Red Ruth

Just those of good standing


Twas the very Cart I sook

And the elusive Ar-Croos

They beckoned me to them

And cried “prepare to let loose”


At first, I was wary

Not sure what would occur

As they whisked me away

All laughs, and quiff of hair


“Drink this,” they said to me

And passed a concoction

Swirls of amber and mist

And flavours of eruption


The night began to dawn

Images now wild and free

Fires praying to the sky

Meats as far as I could see


The times that followed were lost

A mixture of sound and sense

The tale that I now tell

Took place, I think, forthhence


I found myself in long greens

Surrounded by tented homes

The natives were bright of hair

Clothes adorned with skull and bones


I had fear, yet ill-conceived

As the Cart was quick to tell

“Drink up, enjoy the wonder

You’re in Heaven, son, not Hell”


I was willing slave to fate

Ready to accept Cart’s law

Enjoying tribal rhythms

Whilst sitting upon the floor


Bright day turned to dark night

The songs, they did never end

As I listened with fever

To anarchy turned penned


Every act was brutal

A sound burnt by crazed flame

As Ar-Croos and the Cart

Introduced me to their fame


“This is life,” they told me

“Grab it now, never let go

Soak it in, take it on

Let it absorb, let it flow”


There were weakened moments

When I awoke, with fresh thought

Wet of back, weary of mind

Full of hurt muscle, colds caught


But the Cart, never said die

“We suffer to live again

Come, old boy, carry on forth

If you don’t live now, then when?”


It all ended too soon

In a straight razor of time

Music threatening my ear

Drinks full of fever and lime


Before I knew it, it ceased

The tents all gone, thrills ending

The music finished, folk lost

A blank slate, title pending


And with them, was the Cart

Leaving me with Ar-Croos

I took on fresh eaterys

Salty meats, quenching juice


And I did ask Ar-Croos

Where did the Cart doth go?

But Ar-Croos just looked and laughed

“The Cart?” she said, “I don’t know”


“For the Cart is a free one

Never tied, continuous Id

Their heart beats fast and noble

Try to find her? Good luck, kid”


And so, I journeyed back

Dazed of mind and beaten

After days of rock and roll

Booze drank and beasts eaten


I bid farewell to Ar-Croos

And ventured forth, to home

My body was near broke

My brain desperate to moan


But in spirit, I was grand

I had lived, I had travelled

To Cornwallace, my friend

Where my stoic had unravelled


I had searched for the Cart

But the Cart had found me

Introduced me to a world

Changed what I feel, smell and see


Reality, now standard

A land completely apart

From the one in Cornwallace

Land, of the rousing Cart


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