Three Prose Poems

Prerogative …

I was the king. When I entered the court, everyone bowed. With a wave of the hand, I could have a man executed. One evening, I stood to give a speech and found myself stuttering. A lady at the far end of the table began to titter.  The laughter spread like a flame down the table toward me. Even the guards were laughing. I sat down and tried to smile. I could hardly have the whole court executed.



At the party a man was talking about reviving the ancient power of the monarchy, and compared it to the revival of Elvis in the late 1960s, but said Elvis should have sung the way he had in the 1950s, then his reputation would not have gone into such steep decline in the 1970s. ‘But that would have been impossible,’ I said, ‘his voice was completely different by that time.’ I went around the party to make my point, but no one there was interested in Elvis, and they wondered what all the fuss was about. 



Mrs Rod Stewart had been off work for some time because of an accident. One day in the supermarket, she spotted a handsome young man and suddenly felt better. Hobbling towards him and spreading her arms, she burst into song. No one dared tell her that her singing was no more than something between a shout and a cackle. We watched the young man back away in horror. If only her broken leg hadn’t mended so quickly after that terrible fall from the stage one drunken night.



Ian Seed





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