His only regret?  Without hesitation he would answer with acerbity

“Inventing the curse of time. Better it was when standstill prevailed

Freeze framed existence requires no sleep, no sustenance, no swords”

Yet time had been within his gift to the cosmos and whomsoever else

pinned in a monotonous state of being, beholden to the conscious precursor

requisite, who had eyes that saw what they saw and dexterous fingers

That he had unwittingly unleased such a calamity haunted his reality still


The wisp of a girl who would tempt fate had forever sought stark anonymity

it was thus that she was never without her silver Volto Masquerade Mask

such is the way of contradictions to one spawned of the immaculate union

of ‘Time’ and heavenly ‘Circumstance’ his lover. They had named the girl ‘Kismet’

a proud partisan of where all is foretold in a place not suited to giddy libertines


Backside upon kerb, under the shade of a million new red leafed sycamore

puncture repair kit, profanities, dripping sweat, at wit’s end, Kismet’s preloved

crappy old push bike had let her down once too often. It would have to die


“Need a hand?” so said the unshaven young man with a swollen black and blue eye

“Don’t concern yourself the bike is destined for execution” 

“That’s a shame…why the mask? Unlike me following last night’s altercation down the pub I’ll wager you’ve a pretty face behind it?”  

“Believe me when I say you would neither understand my reasoning, nor I can assure you, would you want to know” 

Locked temporarily in a pregnant pause he blinks first, ‘Didn’t catch your name?”

“Didn’t tell you…Kismet if you must know” 

“Want to know my name” 

“Not really, it’s of little consequence to me,” benevolence alien to the dispassionate otherworldly girl of predeterminations horoscope


Yet Time was on his last legs, running out of steam, a lost key clockwork mechanism

the chaos of Time’s death-throws would emasculate fate, soon what the future held

would be known to all and sundry as would migrating sanity to those who had loved

Kismet, as was her way clinically considered the unshaven, swollen black and blue eye boy

whispered ‘benevolence’ over and over, contemplated the relevance of both as one


“Maybe you can help repair my tyre after all…yes, a sound idea…your name also” 

“Promise you won’t laugh? Concord, although my mates just call me Con”


Spontaneously, in mystifying defiance of destiny Kismet removed her mask

tilted her head searchingly, gawping at Con, cross-legged in the road affecting

the repair and mulled over as to whether or not an impromptu puncture repair

and a coupling of fatalism and disarray would ensure her regretful old father Time

and those he had awakened a few more living years was the good thing it felt to be


Some decades on, and an enduring devotion salvaged from a turbulent intimacy later

Con caught up with an aged Kismet now living in Paris, asked if she had any regrets?

“Giving up my mask and revamping the temporal model. My father was correct with regards to the latter”


15 thoughts on “KISMET & CONCORD

    1. My own wife once took off the latter in a busy department store in order to try jeans on and not willing to queue for the changing rooms…my old mum who was with us at the time made an instant beeline for the food hall!

  1. I’m with Paul on this. I’ve read it several times now and I keep returning to the picture of the wheel, the spokes criss-crossing to support the frame. You’ve done that with this piece. A construct complex and yet beautifully simple.

    1. From an exceptional and exquisitely versatile poet who I have not followed for that long I can but express sincere thanks that you both took time out to read and more importantly liked my almost random musings. Cheers

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