Friends Fall Out: An Epic Verse Novel (Saga No. 1)

By Simon Pole

What if fallen angels got a second chance?

In The Saga of Terminal City they do, freed from prison to walk the earth, doing good -- if they can.

Friends Fall Out (No. 1) finds ex-angel Robert Hunger on the trail of a ruthless rock band with plans to enslave the city. Who is their mysterious funder, and why do they desire a shy, but special, young woman?

27 chapters, 2200 lines of poetry, all written in modern epic verse.

Synopsis

The rebels of Heaven, thrown down to earth,
as Poor Shepherds styled are, t' accommodate
the small, and slyly accost he who rules.
To support, from their rent, quarried places,
the computer prodigy Harry Shields,
rude hacker hijacked on prison release
by diabolical priest, Rev'rend Haunts,
his special flesh to some repurpose put.
Haggard odyssey of recovery
opposed is by Krill Linkmaster, failed scribe
of entrail-soaked science fiction, and his
discovery, the band, Pagan Onslaught,
their plan to persecute bloody tyr'nny
on Terminal City. Complicated
are these ends by actors hard and hearty:
the nordic queen Anga, resurrected,
Nithroc, corpse-like Lord of Evolution,
U.F.O. Gods arrived, and most of all,
she who touches all, Summer Anderson,
young harbinger of renewal in one.
The hidden hand of Lucifer we see,
in signs, against whom Robert Hunger leads
the ex-angels to soundings undeduced.

Bio

His mind corrupted by childhood exposure to horror movie matinees, but equally enthralled by the atmosphere of old churches, Simon Pole writes cosmic poetry from the location of Vancouver, British Columbia. A graduate of Harvard University, Simon has continued his studies of what is hidden in the dark. Writing is also in his blood, being the great-great-grandson of early Canadian poet Susie Drury.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Pole
• Release date: Jun 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476191225

Simon Pole

His mind corrupted by childhood exposure to horror movie matinees, but equally enthralled by the atmosphere of old churches, Simon Pole writes cosmic poetry from the location of Kingsville, Ontario. A graduate of Harvard University, Simon has continued his studies of what is hidden in the dark. Writing is also in his blood, being the great-great-grandson of early Canadian poet Susie Drury.

Book preview

Friends Fall Out

an epic verse novel

Simon Pole

The Saga of Terminal City

No. 1

Smashwords Edition

www.simonpole.ca

Copyright © 2012 Simon Pole

All Rights Reserved

No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of Simon Pole.

Original Cover Photo by R Barraez D’Lucca

Used Under License

http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

About the Author

Chapter 1

The hero Robert Hunger wakes, and he

from shuttered closet takes a towel to wipe

the beaded sweat off a neck so corded yet,

that dreams relieved, their bare and fleet descent,

cannot convince of his wholeness again.

The interposition of the cordial

telephone agitates these meagre sticks;

an empire of must, so thoroughly nicked,

the auctioneer’s consignment rejects it.

In brown tones, a fumbled hello; a voice

like comfort’s door unclasped quits receiver:

"My dear, wake up! On this day, all we fear

and something more, is coming now to be.

Obscured is the reason, but the outline

of an evil season fast approacheth.

Our man walks out of jail, as we once did."

He snaggles a comb through black hood of hair,

one middle-aged man, dowdy, who proceeds,

in feeble dawn, a transient phantom,

down back stairs to the fuming parking lot,

and sees the streets, those who swarm, and suffer,

and work, on breasts of a savant mother;

forsooth, call it our Terminal City.

Downtown highrises flare. Robert pilots

his own inerted heap on the crests of

arterial spoor. A penumbra

of glory wraps him, and wraps him, and then

is gone. Stoplights blink in sympatico.

By the noodle house, upon the strip mall,

against a tool rental facility,

locate the Missionary Church of God.

In front, of florid, freckled face, its prop,

the Rev’rend Mister Vicarious Haunts

tarries, in tight collar and choking cross,

engorging ice cream in the breakfast hour.

A small boy waylays yon slouching cleric,

and, shedding free tears, beseeches him hear

the tale of He-Hoo, greatest dog ever,

who went to Heaven, straight away, when struck

on the highway, or so said his Pa-pa.

With flick of a crumb comes revelation:

"Ain’t no God kid. Trust me. Who’s the expert?

When He-Hoo died, they put him in the ground.

Vermiculation, baby! As for love,

I’m sorry, the mutt only shilled for meals

and warm place to pee. Blame the selfish gene."

A squalling child, the apostle of anguish

shoos away; just then, his ride arrives.

From prison gates, the ex-convict exits

through minute crack, into the outer world;

registered as Harry Shields, known hacker,

and rifler of secrets on locked networks.

For the kicks: no exploits thrilled by money,

or mob, or off-account spook direction;

enough for his enhasslement, five years,

penned, fed and squashed at Terminal City’s

discretion. Released in a suit of rags

with nowhere to go, and no one to know.

Cavernous ways disclose, two cars idling,

who want him now, whose headlights spark to life,

and, rolling, follow him like sniffing dogs.

Interminable surveillance begins,

with disdain for privacy, and the debt

he has discharged. A remonstrance stifled.

Inside he feels something unlatch. A soul

that flees its holy roost like rippling smoke,

and collects in Robert’s car, where, in back

there is, wrapped in foil, new body for him,

its egress sealed by a crackling blue flame.

A boneless puddle of flesh is gathered

where it lays on the sidewalk by Rev. Haunts,

the source of separation. Off he drives.

The voice of a woman beside Robert,

almond-headed, plump, good-willed Jill Winter

to Harry ‘splains: "You must sleep, as we take

you somewhere safe, and there your soul will choose."

His heavy eyes drooped shut, and he worried,

"Have I exchanged one jail for another,

not knowing its measure of smothered air?"

Chapter 2

Here, the Terminal City Museum

is, under its arches, pillars and vaults,

flush with many treasures amassed in man’s

squatting leasehold upon the planet’s crust.

Enthroned they are, by red rope and alarm,

as past Chinese heirlooms