Alexander The Large in Wonderland, English beat poetry
"You don't need to be a motorist to join The RAC,"
the brown eyed deep dish plastic name badge, Veronica Smith, pretty and petite
in her indigo pleated skirt and banker type uniform, freckly brunette tells me.
I want to take advantage of her and the coupon in the local paper. Free rail
travel for all new members. Our hands are all over each other; and I somehow
finish up in the kitchen secreted in a cupboard, a jibber aboard. And they are
hectors who enter to pester by trying to insist with too polite coughs that I
exist in some undefined space within the maze like vortex of their cupboards and
really don't belong among their packed lunch in this distorted reality. Their
biscuits are so nice to munch on though! My last memory on waking is of a horde
of cakes and chocolate flakes and this irate Asian type of Chelloveck guy on my
case, outside of my cupboard, giving it the Mister we're not too pleased that
thieves are joining the Royal Automobile Club and stashing themselves, like
train huggers, in our cupboard and eating our luxuries. And I'm just trying to
stuff as much as I can in my face because by now I've sussed this must be a
dream and that soon I'm fated to awake.
