‘The enthroned cannot revolt.’
Thom Gunn
Big Chief Elvis sits at his stars
and stripes picnic table over from the static
caravans, nibbling at a Fool’s Gold Loaf,
quips under his quiff some Elvis lore
that no one else can understand. He
won’t talk to Jump Suit Elvis, having
a quiet cup of tea, hiding behind his shades
as though he doesn’t want anyone to recognise him.
Everybody comes top in the Elvis Quiz.
Gold Lamé Elvis, leaning back, tassels shimmering,
attacks the tiebreaker: ‘Prestwick Airport.’
Little Elvis, sucking his gums, nodding
his jet-black hair in time to the evangelist
cowgirl carrying Bibles, bending into her voice
as she tonsils the acknowledged melody. Her
small hands supplicate Army Days Elvis
who will face his first challenge next: how
to synchronise Elvis-voice and pelvis-action.
In rehearsal he can do one or the other.
At the Silent Elvis Disco they dance,
civilians and Elvises alike, each playing their favourite
track in their heads, the truest accomplishment
of fandom. Flabby Elvis,
Elvis Rye splashing over his tight white suit,
is going to a party at the county jail, while
Lady Elvis, jogging in a Hawaiian bouquet, abruptly
raises her arms in cruciform immobility,
listening to her brain reconstructing ‘In the Ghetto’
in all its social sentimentality. They
need to get her off the dance floor before King Elvis –
he’s a suspicious mind, after all –
starts twirling his air microphone
on pitching helicopter limbs. The disc
jockey folds his arms, and watches,
drinking exquisite silence.
.
Robert Sheppard
.