Monthly Archives: July 2007

La Douceur du Sommeil et du Socialisme

“Yes, I am a dreamer. For a dreamer is one who can find his way by moonlight, and see the dawn before the rest of the world.”Oscar Wilde

The Hare was stunned by the beautiful, futuristic smell of petrol on the station’s forecourt. “Come on”, I said, as I enterered the store, “we need milk”. The checkout lady said there was no milk, and would not listen to reason; “BUT MILK IS ESSENTIAL!”, I ejaculated.

We had to hurry, and get through the carwash before it did it’s  hot wax thing and burnt us. A quick crawl through on hands and knees would minimise damage, because we wanted to look our best when we emerged.

On the other side of the carwash machine was a quaint cobbled street, lit kindly by lamplights and moon. We walked on, as usual, until we came upon a Rumpus. It was two Innkeepers arguing. They owned Inns directly opposite each other, and were loudly debating which was better, and who-took-whos-customers-and-could-I-have them-back.

“How wet are your towlettes?” said one.

“I keep them spick and span” said the other.

“Spick and span? I very much doubt that”

It was unclear who was winning the argument; the Large Egg or The Wolf.

I spoke to The Egg;

“The name’s Dumphrey but you can call me Humphry!”, said the Egg. The Egg spoke as if he was about to crack with anger, but gradually came to feign politeness.  “Come to my Inn! You shall receive a scoldingly warm welcome; turtle doves will wait on your every whim! Your every hand and foot! Come! Look! See!”

“Or don’t” said The Wolf. “Suppose you lodge here instead and receive a warmer welcome. Suppose doves are overated, and the humble Pigeon Servant will do just fine. Suppose, infact, that you find my company altogether more satisyfing! My ballads and songs shall water anybody’s eyes! But, should you wish to sleep, I will whisper them ‘pon your ear, as soft as any baby in a haystack! Come! Look! See! Lay your hat here, and you’ll never be in shade!”

“Yes, Yes” I said, “I hear your words, and they are piffle to me! My needs are quite the simplist kind, I’ll hear no more of wet towlettes, spick or otherwise…no more of Feathered Manservents!”

The Proprietors looked insulted.

“What I need”, I said “is a refuge from wence I came – four walls and…a roof, if possible…or else a good view of The Stars and room for my Instruments…”

The Hare charged at me from behind, almost knocking me over.

“…And a Hare, of course.”

The Large Egg and The Wolf began to fight.

“Please, Gentleman, I emplore you!”

I emplored them;

“My Hare Companion and I have just emerged from an automated Carwash, on all fours, totally unscathed. This is quite a feat. However, we are now Weary, and must sleep, lest we loose what little Beauty we (collectively) posses. I have no time to descuss at length the particular bugbears and hugbears of your respective Establishments. Sew them together, or say “Die”.”

The Large Egg and The Wolf did so, and in place of two Inns either side of the street, there was one, in the middle of it.”

The Innkeepers were overjoyed. “Our Castle and Our Keep!”, they cried, as a Pigeon and a Turtle Dove worked together to lay a table, with a pillow at the head and a freshly warmed cat curled up at the foot.

I nodded vigourously in satisfaction, as did The Hare. “Excellent” I said, “we shall eat the cat, and retire to our room. Send up a Pigeon for The Nightly Duties.”

With our Needs met and our Thirst sated, we were content, and proceeded to knock ourselves out with a Bible and a hammer. As we slept, my Instrument hummed softly, said a few words, and glowed…

…While the Wolf bathed in the yellow innards of the Egg, still looking as sweet and innocuous as a puppy amid the buttercups.



“POEMS ABOUT DOOR HANDLES”, demanded a recent Google search that, happily, turned up this blog. Peter and The Hare are no stranger to Door-Handle promotion on an International scale, and when I thought at how few door [-] handle specific poems there must be out there, I pitied whomever conducted this search.

The Door Handle Poetry Enthusiast’s watering hole must be a very shallow unsatisfying one indeed – perhaps there is, if one is lucky, some kinda shoddily produced photocopied fanzine locally destributed in the village of Spittle-Upon-Wine, specifically for the publication Door Handle Verse, but I doubt it.

I now know my Purpose In Life. Here is a small chapbook’s worth of POEMS ABOUT DOOR HANDLES, for your reading pleasure.

 This poem appears at  Feathertale . First draft below: