The Beast was at a Poetry Cafe

The Beast was at a Poetry Cafe
It did not know what to expect
It wore a freshly pressed beret
And in a sparkly shawl bedecked
All Its apparel was meant to convey
That it belonged in that poetry cafe

Tinted reading glasses flashed
And hid Its bloodshot eyes
Taking out three chairs It crashed 
Into tables, a foot, a wall, a thigh 
With crumpled shawl and one lens smashed 
It finally sat down unabashed 

The lady that It sat upon
Was not wholly unamused
As It had done it with such aplomb 
And the growing purple of the bruise
Matched her flowing purple chiffon
Such that she was loathe to move it on

So the Beast sat with a whine 
(From beneath) and, with one in hand,
Table tapping passed the time
Waiting for its chance to stand
The Beast thought its poems were sublime
They weren’t - it was a slave to simple rhyme

The host began with apologies
The evening’s main draw was delayed, 
The eminent guest poet would lose his fees  
Could not be reached, but the MC prayed
The crowd forgive and be at ease
As the stellar line up would not displease

But by the end of the first haiku
The Beast was getting antsy
And felt the next one “went on” too 
Which plainly told Its fancy: 
“Subtlety” it would eschew 
Its poems were of a stronger brew

It necked its wine and crunched
To pieces the glass between its teeth
And clearing the table, munched 
On the handbag of her beneath
The Beast writhed and hunched
And when table-gut punched 
It brought up far more than just its lunch
... And that somewhat stopped the show.



Whispers danced around the room
There was great agitation
Car trouble, it had been assumed
Caused the last-minute cancellation
But there on the floor: disgorged, exhumed
The evening’s guest poet part-consumed

The Beast looked round quite aghast
As if to say, you think I did that?
As he stood to speak it seemed half arsed
For his Lady-seat had been squashed flat
And this second casualty, now a fleshy cast
Undermined the apology he broadcast   

“We met outside, I am - was- a fervent fan
His work spoke to my soul
It guided me, and shone brighter than 
Any sun or star - he was my pole
So eager to meet him it seemed I ran,
And tripping, unfortunately swallowed the man.

You may think it quite pathetic
And consider me a jealous Beast
But to ingest a poet seems to me poetic
And it was far more famine than feast
My sugar’s low I could be diabetic 
And it did me no good as he was emetic

It saddens me that he is dead
I ate more in sorrow than in rage
But…
I have prepared something in his stead”
And with a bound, Beast took the stage
The audience were filled with dread
And this is the poem that It read:
“The Beast was at a Poetry Cafe…”

The Beast came back. As previously stated, The Beast presents itself as a none-too-subtle avatar of The Author and while I consider this an obvious truth, the poem appears to have been received in the spirit of a fantastical narrative rather than as the biting satire as which it was conceived. In archiving and commenting on the works of The Author I’m not privy to all the ins and outs and don’t want indulge in tittle-tattle, but the background to this piece of barbed wire is a fascinating insight into the fragile ego and immaturity of our subject. So – consider yourself warned:

The Author bluntly wrote that He was indulging a poetry group named REDACTED, but was losing patience with them*. He had been invited to host, guest poet and host again, but was jumped around the schedule – seemingly bumped, but more likely lost in poor admin. Nevertheless He agreed to do a show with them and as His note revealed, the show’s title was enough to get His back up and the theme(s) left him spitting blood and feathers. He felt the notion of a Poetry Cafe was itself REDACTED, REDACTED and clearly the most REDACTED for inspiration, let alone REDACTED audience. Yes – there was an entire section of Haikus, where some contributed by REDACTED didn’t bother with the syllable count and most dispensed with wit. Yes – this dovetailed with the section on AI – conceptually misunderstood and misrepresented by the writers and deftly slept through by eminent poet REDACTED, who despite age and ill-health, was confused and bored by it. And yes -there were the guest poets… who were actually very good, but were the equivalent of a REDACTED in the show programming right up until the performance.

So The Beast was unleashed and scheduled simply as explanation for the poisonous poem that was written in furious response to the event itself. The Author was flattered by the extra attention and time in the show that was given to Him and built a puppet to perform with – forgetting somewhat the urge to demean the group that clearly was indulging Him… that is, until the rehearsals began, and then it came back with a vengeance.

When it came to the performance, I would hazard a guess and say that the distraction of wearing Himself on His arm threw The Author somewhat, and the sheer toxicity of His thoughts helped put some of the poem’s better lines out of mental reach. However He can be captivating in His unprofessionalism and was, after all just part of a larger piece: the audience mostly stayed awake and entertained and, after all, isn’t that what its all about?!

* The note was a classic – scrawled by fingertip in mud on the outside of my window sometime between 2 and 4am and almost completely lost due to a light rain. He appeared insensitive to the idea they might have been indulging and losing patience with Him.

ADDENDUM: Having published this, a further note appeared on the window in mud. It read

It’s not mud

First draft circa Jun 2024

Rough performance time - 3 minutes, 50

Performed twice

Date	Venue
24th Aug 2024	Hampton Hill Theatre
10th Feb 2026	Laureate's Lounge, Staines