Met a Star's Eyes
In sequins, in jeans, no vice untried, he's hot, too famous. Sharing in a new rage, fans without sense, ability or taste were stunned by his great disco - very dazzling; such technique, each woman with a queue. Men lined up, hopeful, frustrated - he the most. No table - a rival on the scene with his ex (pert, poisoned laughter) got there first. He could sin till late, a lewd hint enough to get what he wanted. All night stud, he made endless advances. Easy Sue pursued, taking the bait, seriously in love. With excitement he lost count of the times he got on her - danger never far away, envy. Whatever the problem, a debt recalculation got him through.
While ordering his double, he licks his lips, injects himself with the weirdest elation. Sin had transformed his life. When can circumstances change? His key moment - he had to be careful. On the Med he sins again, new cocktails. A new drug treat meant more sickly daze. She was prone to dye her hair a new colour each night. Once a rogue antagonist if led astray, hope entered his life, a recovered drunk. But his weekend spirits failed - too easy to stress doubt. Wisecracking, he scolded her each night. He still spoke too much, a claim he later denied. Liking jewels, he had a greedy side, dead mean to tell the truth, but with friends she forgot all that, said all was fine, no doubts allowed, innocence assured.
The rape he denied. Any hope she had disappeared without successor in sight. There was no missed ache. She'd tear strips off him, the pain no cure. A quiet end was what he wanted to avoid. He wanted to party, longed to be wilder - not with her, coffees piled up. Fears receded. He hadn't even won friends' love, though he loved disguise. She suddenly realised all that other people missed - defied him, began to wonder, stand apart from his ego. There were other problems though - not earning, back in trouble, a loan turned down. No time to readjust. No ring, of course. It was finished, a lover gone forever, another of life's fated, casual ties.
Metastasize
In sequencing genes - novice, untried - he shot to fame, ushering in a new age. Fans without sensibility or taste were stunned by his great discovery - dazzling, such technique. Each woman with acumen lined up, hopeful, frustrated. He, the most notable arrival on the scene with his expert poise and laughter, got there first. He could scintillate, allude, hint enough to get what he wanted. All night study made endless advances easy. Super-pseud, he took debate seriously, in love with excitement. He lost count of the times he got honoured - anger never far away, envy. Whatever the problem, adept recalculation got him through.
While ordering his double helix he slips, injects himself with a weird distillation. His DNA transformed his life. When cancer comes, stances change. His chemo meant he had to be careful on the medicines again, new cocktails - a new drug treatment, more sickly days. He was prone to diarrheoa - new colour each night. Once arrogant, agony stifled a stray hope, entered his life - a wreck; overt drunk. But his weakened spirits failed - too wheezy, too stressed out. Wise, cracking his code, deader each night. He still spoke to much acclaim. He later denied liking duels. He had agreed, decided, meant to tell the truth, but with friends he forgot all that, said all was fine, no doubts aloud, in no sense assured.
Therapy denied any hopes he had, disappeared without success or insight. There was no mistake. Shed tears drip, soften the pain. No cure. A quiet end was what he wanted too; a void. He wanted to part, he longed to bewilder, not wither, cough. Fees piled up. Fears re-seeded. He hadn't even one friend's love, though he loved his guys - he suddenly realised all that. Other people mystified him, began to understand. Apart from his ego there were other problems though - no turning back, in trouble, alone, turned down. No time to read, just knowing of course it was finished, all over, gone forever, another of life's feted casualties.
[The "Journal of Microliterature" has disappeared, so I'm reprinting it here. It's really one homonym rather than 2 stories]
I've had to miss some recent Ely, Bedford and Cambridge readings because of other commitments. On 17th May, though bug-ridden, I managed to attend an Anglo-Indian event. I knew of 2 of the poets there, Prabhu Guptara and (pictured against a musical, artistic backdrop) Rishi Dastidar (Nine Arches Press). Usha Akella, Mona Dash, Kavita A. Jindal, Jessica Mookherjee, Soul Patel and Yogesh Patel performed too.
We managed a leisurely ride along the Avenue Verte whose comforting signposts accompanied us through villages that seemed abandoned, past many little, run-down farms, stone buildings and chateaux, along rivers, canals, and disused railways, through industrial estates and woods, and across fields. We couldn't finish at Notre Dame because of the road blocks, but we got close. 
I've not been to Paris in decades. There were many electric scooters (the sort you stand on, hire by the hour, then dump). I wandered through the Beaubourg region at night, which was lively, and I found this poetry venue.
I read John Fuller's poetry for the first time, and even liked a long poem. I read two poetry pamphlets I wasn't so interested by. I started writing a story about a theology teacher that I think I'll be abandoning soon.
We took the EuroStar back, another first for me.
My story collection "By All Means" (ISBN 978-0-9570984-9-7), published by Nine Arches Press, is on sale from 
My poetry pamphlet "Moving Parts" (ISBN 978-1-905939-59-6) is out now, on sale at the 
