Poet Authority Poem Terminal

He got sad and ectoplasm started spilling everywhere.

Sent them to the streets.

Demanded they gather goods from the neighbourhood.

And not return until their little plastic pumpkin heads were full.

Yes.

Several hundred bags of sand arrived.

He was never going to hear the end of this.

Margaret told Dave.

Dave frowned at Fabio.

When people came to his house he'd point at it.

'That's a prickly customer'

He'd say.

Visitors dwindled.

He put on a jumper.

Reg enquired as to the location of the vacuum cleaner.

'The same place it's been for 20 years, Reg.'

Replied Henregetta.

Reg's dopey head nodded cluelessly.

Gave the environment a quick scan.

Made himself comfortable on the couch.

Said Gordon,

Panting,

120 miles from home.

Beryl questioned his story.

Which was very inconvenient. 

And rickety.

And old. 

But most importantly,

Iconic.

Ken flew back to Lisbon because he forgot to ride on one of their iconic yellow trams.

Then he flew home again.

That his flight would be delayed,

And that he would be seated directly in front of a heavily intoxicated person,

Who would spend the flight spilling bottles of beer,

Filling the cabin with constant sprays of perfume,

And repeatedly attempting to vape.

He hit the jackpot!

Something to let his electric toothbrush know how much he was missing it.

And that he'd be back home soon.

A much more convenient version of the sea.

He stood and watched the otters.

Which he followed up with more otters.

Then it was otters and staff requesting he leave.

Finally, there was a fight with security,

In front of some otters.

Rain

On Ken's holiday.

This was unbelievable!

Ken glanced down at Lisbon's iconic limestone pavements.

Now ever so slightly damp from the misting of rain.

And braced himself for a walk.

He equipped elbow pads, kneepads, a helmet, and wrist guards,

Called whatever Portugal's equivalent of search and rescue is,

Let them know his route back to the hotel,

And requested they send out a team if he doesn't contact them by midnight.

Ken chose to give Lisbon's public transportation another chance.

He checked the bus timetable,

Pitched his tent,

Set up a camping stove,

And enjoyed an evening listening to the traffic pass by.

People must know I've visited Portugal.

Ken looked left.

Pessoa appeared.

Ken looked right.

Pessoa appeared.

Ken ran.

Barged into a shop.

Pessoa surrounded him.

There was no escape.

Which can be spelt in a way that is less easy to pronounce if you like.

Additionally it's in Sintra, in case you're looking for it.

It was inconveniently placed at the top of a mountain.

In a tremendously humid place.

Anyway,

Ken climbed the humid misty mountains of Sintra.

Palace in view.

But not really,

Because of the aforementioned mist.

In actuality he couldn't see much at all.

But he imagined it must be a rather impressive sight.

At the peak he clambered over tourists,

Reached the highest point of the palace itself,

And gazed back down the mountains.

Or at least he would have.

You know, if the mist wasn't in the way.

He'd been told about big waves.

Or towering waves.

To make things a bit more poetic.

He gazed at the oceans from the town.

Not today,

I suppose.

Alighting a plane.

In the country of Portugal.