Thomas Helm Surreal-Absurd Sampler
“For me, writing surreal-absurd poetry is a way of sifting through the unconscious and discovering the strange truths that dwell there. Often I won’t know what I’m looking for until I’ve found it. Some images feel all too real despite their obvious un-reality. Mined from the silence and darkness within, they shine with a light that burns.
I say “image” rather than “poem” to stress the intensely visual nature of the medium, as I perceive it. The reduced language setting of prose-poetry helps bring those images to life without other elements of poetic artifice getting in the way. These surreal-absurd prose-poems come from a work-in-progress manuscript titled ‘72 Names of God(ess)’.”
— Thomas Helm
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THE STATIONMASTER
Curling around supernovae, black holes, and neutron stars, the queue outside the lost-and-found office of the interdimensional train station runs for several galaxies. Tired of the constant lamenting, the stationmaster has put up billboards all over the station. Warning, the signs read, please take care of your realities while travelling, for there is no guarantee of restoration in the event of loss. But the travellers don’t seem to understand, or if they do, they ignore the warning, for the queue shows no sign of shortening. I myself have been waiting for seven thousand years. In that time, I’ve seen many bizarre things, such as a horde of Vikings miss the last night train to Valhalla for the sake of some lost glory. I’ve heard a race of sentient frogs croak on and on about the perfect wisdom of their mother, the details of which were lost in the spawn. I spoke with Dante Gabriel Rossetti: he cursed his double heart, said he was queuing to get his true love back. Every century or so, I catch a glimpse of the stationmaster: a tight-jawed man with a drooping moustache and beautiful, hooded eyes. Sometimes he takes the form of a luminous goldfish soaring above our heads with the indifference of a solitary moon. I’ve been queuing so long that I’ve forgotten what I want. Perhaps, like many others, I’ve nowhere left to go. Reality for me is what takes place inside the cracks.
THE DIGGER
Five men are digging a hole but only two of them are human. Assembled quickly and cheaply in a nearby factory, the other three are made from grease and sugar cubes. They grin and talk just like other men, but are sweeter and tend to be less concerned about themselves. The trucks that deliver them take the older ones away, free of charge. And with so many holes to dig, they are always in plentiful demand.
THE OCEANOGRAPHER
The oceanographer lives in a shallow cave beside the ocean. Only after seven months of sailing in terrible conditions did I find him, and even now I’m not sure what I found. The memory of our meeting is a dark stain in my heart. He was a tall, lean man, slightly stooped, with sunken, needling eyes. Our initial contact went smoothly enough. He greeted me as a long-lost friend and offered me a bitter-tasting herbal tea that he claimed enhanced the perceptive faculties. Warmed by his welcome after so many storms, I turned a deaf ear to his more grandiose proclamations. No-one knows the ocean better than me, he said. The history of oceanography ends with my discoveries. Then, like an excited schoolboy, he showed me his maps. What I saw were resonant, but mostly unintelligible squiggles, poetic half-phrases, drawings of strange creatures that he claimed to be the angels that spoke to him. When I didn’t immediately offer him my praise, he narrowed his eyes. It’s your small mind, not my perfect map, that’s the problem, he said. One day the whole world will worship me and I will pity men like you who fail to see the truth. Startled by the iciness in his voice, I backed out of the cave and returned to my ship, convinced that he would curse me if I stayed a moment longer. I suspect he made his maps not to guide people, but to enslave them. His obsession with the ocean seemed to contain a thirst for power. It took me several years to recover my own desire for exploration. These days I approach the seas with caution. I carry too many wounds to be the open-natured explorer I used to be.
THE COLONIST
No-one knows why Moon Colony A-210 fell prey to the crying epidemic. Psychologists blame prolonged exposure to the sight of their home-world drifting in the void before them; communists cite long hours and poor working conditions in the mines as day after day the miners picked through barren rock for little gain. The overseers initially dismissed the epidemic as a ‘dangerous nuisance’ (SF News Archives, data point 242.123bg) but quickly began to warm to its benefits. At first, the tears were used to fertilise the kitchen gardens. Later, they flowed into streams and rivulets and finally a small lake, which became home to the moon’s first water park, complete with slides, jet-ski circuits, and a fleet of pleasure-crafts (see colony brochure ‘A Fun Day Out for All the Family’). So profitable was the burgeoning tear economy that miners were given tear productivity targets and participation in the weekly crying competition became mandatory. Winners received a free day pass to the water park and permission to look the governor in the eye, albeit for no longer than five seconds. Thanks to these incentives and various disciplinary measures for the dry-eyed, Moon Colony A-210 became a veritable oasis in a harsh land, a paradise of manicured lawns, immaculate flower-beds, and well-attended garden parties. If not for the sound of constant wailing, Moon Colony A-210 would be a delightful place to live.
THE HOST
Given that the personalities have essentially remained the same, nobody knows when the robots replaced everyone’s favourite TV hosts. Look! There’s the same cool-headed host who delights in humiliation; the wise host who rounds off debates with sentimental contemplations; the mad host who sexually abuses the film crew; the enthusiastic host who waxes lyrical about the natural world or some other hobby horse; the solemn host who delivers a blow-by-blow account of the latest political scandal. Nor have the snake-pits that guard the stage from outsiders changed. In the game shows – and every show is a kind of game show – vultures still eye the winners from the rafters. The King of America owns shares in the TV holding company and is passing a law that will make viewing mandatory, for the good of the economy, of course. The King’s main rival – another TV holding company – is strangely silent on the issue. The senator who criticised the decision to appoint Mickey Mouse as head of the armed forces has been offered a job with a six-figure salary for Walt Disney. There are plans to rebuild the White House in the shape of the Disney Castle and employ robot dwarves to sing songs about Snow White and humpty dumpty. Rousing, patriotic songs that culminate with fireworks and flag-waving. On his latest US tour, the British Prime Minister gave a speech about Harry Potter and the Queen (who is definitely NOT a lizard). Everyone knows that the French love baguettes and Russians vodka, so why bother having real people perform these tasks? Robots are simpler, less inclined to struggle, require less maintenance work, and, importantly in the fight against climate change, have a lower carbon footprint than their human counterparts. Visitors in France will see real French robots waltzing along moonlit boulevards with baguettes tucked under their arms, while those who go to Russia will see characters from 19th Century novels lying in snowdrifts surrounded by empty bottles of vodka. However, before ordinary citizens may avail of these amazing, life-changing experiences, they must promise to be on their best behaviour and smile, whenever possible, like children. Refusal to play the game may result in their termination.
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THOMAS HELM is a writer and journalist and helps edit Mercurius. He has two poetry collections “The Mountain Where Nothing Happens” and “A Pilgrimage of Donkeys”, both of which engage with the surreal-absurd.
