Second Spring: An Epic Verse Novel (Saga No. 7)

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.

When the fearless, the friendless, and the fiendish converge all at once on the island of the apocalypse, what will happen? Find out, along with the last of the Poor Shepherds, in Second Spring (No. 7).

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

Synopsis

Our tale draws to its close, as the angels,
ex and new, to the Island make their way,
where, in ruins of clownish peoples past,
the final confrontation is begun.
A race will there be of enslaved half-men,
in tinkered cage, by rebel dentist made,
seed soldiers of the lost hero-brother,
and too, enforced work fields with stationed guard.
From the sea, by the lady pirate led,
with her consort, will come cloned twin-plant men,
themselves disturbers of buried clown tech.
Yet, evil actors too their parts shall play:
he of the grooved skull, and lobed lab lurkers
who in bunker keeps the two-headed Beast,
that which will mirrored Satan reunite.
In orbit, massed Hell must war-craft disgorge
onto summits where converge the parties,
and there, in disturbance of what long slept,
the first Poor Shepherd will both rise and rest,
his sepulchre revolving city streets,
a mobile base, as time marches forthwith
to the end long foretold in prophecy,
while skinless, street-beaten men drum us out.

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 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310957642

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

Second Spring

an epic verse novel

Simon Pole

The Saga of Terminal City

No. 7

Smashwords Edition

www.simonpole.ca

Text copyright 2015 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 taymtaym

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

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

About the Author

Chapter 1

Afar, afar it looked like a turtle,

the beavering tug on the horizon,

which behind pulled a wreck, in pieces split,

while on decks of the following liner,

in crowds of two and three, after dinner,

there watched, in bored poses of wealthy folk,

who, their costly shipfare bought, appalled are,

though not long surprised, with quality of

their cabin-mates’ conversation. And yet,

a duo, in slick rubber wrapped, and scarfed,

though fair the night was, without sleet or rain,

attentive crowd the bowsprit, whispering,

to each aside, feedback on the sighting near.

A whale she is, imparts the first, "that boat

bulldozing the blue water, slow going.

And what she tow-lines, like a comrade’s corpse,

Is it that ghost-ship we are looking for?"

From hip-pocket he, the second, produced,

and to his eye sly put, a telescope,

and this furtive glassed the rolling prospect.

Aye, said he, in timely observation,

his voice gravel gruff, like foremen who shout,

in the woods, over machine noise and saws,

"By her markings blazed I see, though sundered,

like block-letters broken on that bent hull.

‘Twas she who departed fast, Thursday last,

in earnest from Terminal City slips,

with us, from vacations north, arriving

but too late, tickets only procuring

on this gilded freighter, of blowhards full

(and us regarded as contest winners,

imposters, or discount grief-pass holders

—of which, in parts, each three we are, slightly).

And now, from this hip-hugging bag of tricks,

a pliant sack, faithful source, in the bush,

of aid, sustenance, and warming pellets,

I pull, like the mafioso hitman,

or hunter hand-stiff on African veldt

his rifle cocked, this pipe-jointed flare gun,

its lone cartridge load, light, and stand to fire."

And there he, Lem the Logger, full-revealed,

in striking beard, braid-coned (scarf away pulled),

the search implement waved like a madman.

Sea staff there are on vessels these, salts not,

instead, confidants and willing helpers,

with unct’ous manners, conflict deflating

(and contraband procuring, whenever),

and senior-most the displaced approached,

in high attitude like a king’s servant.

He simped: "Our eyes, patrolling eyes, we’ve had

onto you directed, since first you came

on board. Two rubes, from hinterland shores,

here transplanted, by luck or guile, who knows,

but we, roving conscience of these dank planks

have you nude-vetted, and found, below decks,

in belly of the cargo hold, a box,

of curious dimension. What’s inside?

we ponder, then its crated heft unbind

and expose to the light, a casket pine.

What figure of death bring you in our midst?"

In glory then, time it was, for his bud,

at Lem’s left standing, to reveal himself;

and so dropped he, with jazz-head’s stage presence,

the seam-sealed, outer, rain-retarding gear,

and, with flourish of his right, strumming hand,

a virtuous finger points at the fop,

and says (he, street-lored Freaky Coolhat, says):

"You who crowd and hassle rough the bereaved,

when to your care they on this ship’s route come,

propriety an idol make, not love,

I tell you, as sure as the sea drowns men,

that, on the morrow, when, what in the bowels

of this stout craft, coffin-carried, sits up,

not for distress will he ache, but rebirth,

legacies to pass on, heirs to anoint

(though hid, a mighty light in life he was),

but first you, stump in our path sever we."

The gun at hangman’s head discharged was, but,

no yard-gank was this, for, into spiders,

the melting flesh fell, a demon id’d,

while away tug and wreck steamed, unnoticed.

Chapter 2

Like a flash-bomb of femininity,

concentrated, it was, glad-engarbed girls,

who entered, in bubbled perfume awash,

the penthouse suite, Continental Hotel,

and there eye-batted the proprietors,

on plush divans acouch, slavering good.

Once hand-mouth labourers, a dingy lot,

who, in sawdust of speck-choked mills, sawed boards,

or, in pat-wet brick works, clay bundles heaved,

and frayed outfits, barely above rags, wore.

But now, in chambers of splendour, they sat,

in the clothes of kings, and bags of money,

that were over-stuffed, and spilling the bills.

Perfunctory was the giddy welcome

imparted to the invitees, by them,

supposed marks looking for a ‘good time’

(as blurted they to agents on the phone),

before, a bucket of sobriety

on them sombreness settled, and with looks

of fearsome cast, the outer door beheld.

"Way past due they are, collectors who come,

in cahoots, to