Argument: In which three knights sing about noses and what they can mean for the world.Up the stairs and up the stairs and up the stairs we go – shedding depth and music hall appeals ten miles below.
“The song
is getting low –
the notes and catching melody,
toe tap of tapping shoes
and song sung blues.”
And up the stairs, go up and feel the air thin and thinner, still and stiller, than the air at the bottom of the stairs; and up – yes, up! – banal repetition going on and on – repeat once more, goes on and on… how far did we climb and need anyone care? the steps took their time to deliver us there.
A door stopped us – oak? pine? formica topped and artificial? a handle made of whale-bone, of plastic-wrap, of sheer, bold gold to block our way and lock us out.
“What now?
Are we stopping
at this abundant barrier
which delays the story
for weeks, for months?”
Heave-to… we shouldered the door like we did the crowds that had blocked our way all those clouds and rains ago.
“Force it!
Push and solid,
take the pain the door throws at you
as enthusiasm
forced upon it.”
With a one, a two, a thud upon the door and a one, a two, a crash upon the door we burst – a balloon! – through the ripping surface, he first and heading for the floor with the force of an unwelcome entry.
But who’s here? who’s here? what’s this in this room?
I saw a window with clouds, curtains, curtains unwound rewound, near-funeral shrouds; a striped sunlit sound on the roofs of the city; a bird-flight, half-lit, shadowed, more's-the-pity; bare floor, wooden floor; the ripping splinters of a broken door; a table, chairs, three knights a-sitting; three knights at dinner, in armour, fork and knife a-cutting; one chicken between them, cooked, deconstructed, flesh and fowl, the parson’s nose reconstructed and fed sharing to all.
“But who,
what, and aren’t you?
No… but wait! and still in little
one-off bits and thoughtless
thoughts, wait!, and oh...”
Yes, by some miracle, some accident, look here: it was metal-knight, mechanical, cogs’n’gears Quixana!
“Ah, wait!
[… said he…]
Am I seeing
Sir Lathynarn Lilliputian?
The small one and his squire
come through this door
“to find
myself, my friends,
my fellow knights in waiting for
the food to stop, party
to begin – Oh!
“Sir Dwarf,
greetings! Return
your face and form so completely
to my storyville view
I tell so neatly
“and slow
with great pauses.
The causes of your return here –
complicated? unknown?
simple as sin?”
Lathynarn smiled at his mechanical speech – puffed up, dropped his all.
“Metal
knight, Don Qué –
you carry my narrative arc
rainbow-like, untouching
the ground or sky.
“But who,
if I may ask,
[…asked Lathy, looking over…]
are your guests, your visitors here?
Do they move on a plot?
Or above it?”
[But, pause for a moment - before this, let me sing a sad song for Quixana:
Quixana! Quixana!
welcome back to the tale
with your metal face and fantasy
steel surfaces and mind.
And still and still and what
is that mystery you hold
before your face
do you remember?
that foam red nose.
But he will not speak
about the fake and facaded
red extension upon
his existing beak.
He kept his nose covered... remember this.]
Knight One sat suave, what panache!, his hat a-flopping by his side, his moustache twirled beneath that large surprise.
“My friend,
[… quoth Quixana…]
Sir Cyrano.
Note his extraordinary
nose of which we do not
natter, unless,
“of course
he would do so -
and then he’d chatter forever
and spit-and-spray splatter
on its base.”
Sir Cyrano nodded towards us – his nose so long I could feel its wave poke the air around my own.
Knight Two sat straight, autistically so – square paper underneath his plate, an abacus to rest a fork upon, a swirl of equations by his Gallic elbow, a hum, a violin, a suggestion of a song.
“My friend
[… quoth Quixana…]
Sir Julia.
Do not startle when he removes
his nose mask, which he may,
for beneath it
“is hid
one nose removed,
one absent, one gash, a horror
of filmic noselessness
to startle you.”
And Sir Julia smiled, his leather patch sweating, streaming into splattered chicken juices - the feast continued with smiles and nods at the two new guests.
Lathy pulled himself and asked:
“Honour
is mine to meet
my fellow soldiers, but have you
heard a damsel clapping
from beneath you?
"My quest
is now certain -
to find Dear Dame Celebrity
whose clapping and tapping
of hands is pure__"
I stepped forward - this would not do; he could not let the noses lie - what were these knights, and what could they tell us?
"Jesus,
Lathy - listen
to yourself less and study them.
Something needs said right now
that we must hear.
"Sir Qui,
[... I turned to them...]
my other Lords
in your armour and soldiery
tell us about noses.
Sing us your songs."
I did not look at Lathynarn. I looked only to the window.
Sir Julia stood up and sang:
“Unrequired, never needed –
the nostrils are divinity
in purpose, not in form,
in form, a falsehood!
“A reduction of the nose
revelation of truth
true calling, true life
true, knights, true-true.
“I have limited mine
I have shortened it
you see it – flat!
Flat Julia
“I have
no__”
Sir Cyrano hushed him - shoosh and calm!
“Life! a feast of snot of ages
dripping on your schoolboy pages
page of honour while maid of none
the snot reveals a path now run
“and snot drips down the Nose Royale
unlike the nose-quite-minimal –
it gushes forth to cover lands
to be mopped-up by others’ hands.
“My nose guides the path my snot takes
from childhood to the life that death takes
one step more – the longer nose shows
that life is a snot trail that grows and grows
and grows and grows and grows
from your snot covered fingers
to the tip of my nose.”
We all cried a little, I believe - except Lathy, I did not want to look at his eyes.
Quixana sang:
“My song is a bastardform
my nose hidden from view
and all its voice and song
not meant for you.
“'Repent', they say,
'from mysterious ways
show your nose
beneath the nose
that covers the nose
in its clownish way.'”
Vain Lathy had seen his mirrored nose five hundred times – in shattered glasses and laketops, in dreams, imaginations and fadings – his all, it would be true – like Julia’s (flattish), like Cyrano’s (brutish), though just somewhere inbetween.
But before Lathy could answer - I felt his chest rise to speak and sing his unjustifiable nose - a cheer shouted up from the window – a cheer, a festival, the bunting flew-up, flapped against the window frame – the parade had started.
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