Not Strictly Entertaining

“This is dumb” grumbled the celebrity chef

as he attempted a clumsy bald-headed plié,

and, mugging shamelessly for the cameras,

he announced he had never danced before.

 

“It’s mad, I’ve never danced before” he revealed,

rubbing his head proudly to a waxen sheen

with his sweaty, torn cuff; he liked it rough,

as his publicist had briefed him he should.

 

“My wife thinks I must be gay!”                                silence,

cut to a sequence of trialled pink sequinned shirts,

a nonsensical statement left to hang in the edit

like a homophobic fart in the prime-time lift.

 

Then cheers as he and his partner hit the dance floor,

hands on bums, pumping their hips with fixed grins,

stiff, like over-sexualised animatronic mannequins

lurching along painfully to Tom Jones’ “Sex Bomb.”

 

One judge liked it, he always does, flirting in his verdict,

one judge hated it, he always does, flinging verbal excrement,

one judge wasn’t sure, she never is, she liked his swinging hips

the last judge was too busy flogging frozen food (like he always is).

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Bhāvanā (Meditation)

Master Hand

Buddhist technique #1 – Palm descending from Heaven

My stomach sinks. I am falling; incredible speed smashes against my ears. I spot a far-off spark and spy a single star. A comets trail catches at me and, suddenly, enveloped, I am still. I push and punch at my prison; the walls respond and retract. Looking up now, I feel weightless as a chink of light appears, opening. I crawl out, on to a great golden palm that quivers beneath me. Gigantic glinting fingers crease, and fold back, to form a clawed cockpit. I step forwards, reborn, the pilot of the hand of God.

Buddhist technique #2 – Void and diffusion

Sailing into night, all is silent as it stretches away forever, the vast black frozen sea. Time seems spurious as all is speed and void, all is silent as it stretches away forever, the vast black frozen sea like sleep with lucid dreaming, and all is silent. A vast sea, black frozen time silence, all is spurious and void. All is silent, and still, and then, suddenly, from eternal darkness, springs forth a light. A coloured pinprick, blinking, beckons me in, the great whim; a simple request for investment of consciousness that must be answered.

Buddhist technique #3 – The hand that feeds

The hand agreed, wordlessly. Vibrations quicken, ear drums quiver. I crouch low as colours grow and blossom: great pink and yellow space-orchids spinning red and blue. We approach as petals part; an interwoven helix of paint box strands unravels. Psychedelic spaghetti twisting past a dislocated prism and we are speed now as we fly through the heart of the matter. A camel squeezed at terminal velocity through the eye of a syringe.