Evil Ape: An Epic Verse Novel (Saga No. 6)

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.

Evil forces threaten the blue ark of Earth. Change is coming, but will it be for good or bad? Of history’s relentless march partake, in Evil Ape (No. 6).

30 chapters, 2400 lines of poetry, all written in modern epic verse.

Synopsis

The fruits of earth, those that bud, good and bad,
or indiff’rently, rich temptation are
to them in star-heights or hovels dwelling.
To distant pastures are they called: the foe,
of sky-scraped immensity, his pursuit,
those of game-able gist, hardcore train-mates,
and he, in augmented, upright glory,
the fearsome Ape, who conniving concocts
these events. To epoch-evolving springs,
in green glens, his loathsome Ape armies troop
where also those monitors, ex-angels,
embark, aided by artisan allies,
an ancient breed, the thumb-thimbled tailor,
and meddles too fatherly CEO’s,
with stakes in mutable technology.
Predictable ruin if life-beds are lost,
a leaf-toothed visitor from other worlds
intones, and of the people launches two,
new Shepherds to be in upcoming times,
while to space again most actors return,
there to slug out, and embed, new life-lines
--though forward points the will of fate, new earths,
with new men, to come in founded chapters.

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: Jul 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310590443

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

Evil Ape

an epic verse novel

Simon Pole

The Saga of Terminal City

No. 6

Smashwords Edition

www.simonpole.ca

Copyright © 2014 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.

Cover Photo Original by Eric Kilby

Used Under License

https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/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

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

About the Author

Chapter 1

The Merchant of Freak his friendly cart pushed,

that ricketed on one side, like a wreck,

or lame pack-horse that still forward wanders,

and this, this junkyard cart, was nonetheless,

on sides, and top, from strings and pin hanging,

acrowd with wares of singular fashion:

a withered head, once an ostrich, fire-singed,

alongside bright toys of strange aliens;

but also, in jars, brined in pickle juice,

the outcome of science experiments,

and combs stolen too from burial mounds.

All these, for a pittance in pockets go,

if his confidence you can surely take,

and so, with others in the noonday park,

who in circles sit with ears at his feet,

as he his wire beard scratches, close listen,

and hear, an odd tale told, weird as his wares.

At Stalingrad, the snow came down, he said,

"that graveyard of nations and broken men,

in sheets, a great shroud from Heaven sifted

that fell, and feasted, on armour like beasts.

And again, in the after, snow like that,

where the veteran Uri rifle bore

to hunt, though hand and foot but stumps, a cat,

who, with bloody tooth and claw, fields raided,

and, a red trail raised through pellet-pocked drift,

until, in throes of this Russian winter,

an end found in fences and glowing dirt.

A raw earth this, in perpetual thaw,

once a mine or nuclear fuel-well made

by Red bureau authorities, but now

to nature left, an abandoned stink-pit

of yellow pools, and popping sulfur gas,

that no ice, but always open pools showed.

To ground, the cat slinked, in some hole hiding,

among the craters where it a den sunk,

and like the Wehrmacht half-froze stumbling dazed,

Uri the invader sought to vanquish."

A squirming nit the Merchant, from his chin,

with absent force pulled, and recognized it,

by spine and carapace, as a rare breed,

so in tube slips, before recounting more:

"The white cat jumped from heights behind Uri,

a Siberian, tight in majesty,

who with weighted force, and a lover’s grip,

submerged them both into the frothing pool.

Full furied were the fumes that poured off then,

and roiling the cauldron disturbed steam,

as pink blood was that stained the water’s skin,

and the beast’s rank fur, that from Uri leaked,

with dribs choking throat, duct and nostril pore.

After the waves to ripples calmed stepped one,

of four legs, but two now twisted like stumps,

like limbs that are to frostbite sacrificed,

and on the discards of amputees thrown

in time of war: the cat, crafty-eyed stared,

with intelligence of more than feline,

and, on sulfur-soaked snow gaited forwards.

But oh those prints that it left, of rounded shoes,

or booted feet, such as those soldiers wear,

and no more the paws of slinking pusses."

Insistent were they, his fans, leaning in,

to hear, in this tree-thatched park, where they sat,

in a throng, around him, for his tale’s end.

But he, who spied, a likely customer, or two,

in other parts, accosted them, and sold,

with cagey banter, a coat, weakly seamed,

a hat, with caved-in crown, and pocket knives

that cut no straight lines, but blunt blades produce,

before he, unfaltering, this concludes:

"The cat’s dung was that of man, and also,

as it stood, and the wind wetly scented,

from the voices of the village, distant,

it heard the summons of Uri’s mother.

A snout up raised is, but no howl emits,

instead, gruff talk of a Russian nature

in man’s word spills: I’m coming home, Mama!

and the lynx lopes to dates with destiny."

No more could they impose on him to speak,

the Freak, who under trees retired to sleep,

and nurse narratives for another day.

Chapter 2

A drink-lesioned bureaucrat he had bribed,

in Moscow, at the old record depot,

who fronted a dilapidated desk,

and doled out, like pieces of One True Cross,

a dribble of documents that discussed,

in their cryptic and stupefying way,

most megalomaniacal project plans,

that one crackpot theory or another

tried to prove, pets of the Communist boss.

At dissolution of the mono-state,

inside rushed many a rich, Western man,

in limos drove, with suitcases of dosh,

who on rutted roads sought secrets to buy.

One such in Siberian vastness rolled,

with driver a