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Aladdin, Sinbad, Scheherazade and all that

It was as if

all of his life he’d been stoppered,

some kind of Eau de Genie

in thick green glass


Muttering around inside

was his whole world

in those shadowed rooms

he ate, slept, busied himself

often cleaning the windows

that from time to time let through

a few flickers of sunlight


Blaming his parents

for their lack of vision

in choosing him

from rows of dusty

undistinguished corked bottles


And then some

cheeky youngster rubbed him



is there anyone inside?


You wouldn’t believe what emerged

when the cork blew off

newspapers, shirtsleeves, organ grinders,

orange peel sunsets, beachcombers

chocolate liqueur, waterfalls, poetry,

encyclopedias, the Michelin Man


And it’s not over yet

not by a long way

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© Johnmichael Simon



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