UAE Unfettered

To write is to write; when practised is better then, written well. What to write content looms and page is yet blank content looms as if the dyke stopper cannot be pulled for wont of a good enough reason to allow the flattening destruction of a dam bursting.

But then a light, a sign, is glimpsed. A glimmer flashes, visible. The distance is brought near, and the Lion lies down with sheep, so to speak. The wolf in sheeps clothing is revealed, though, in his stead, some might even say luckily. If they knew what it means…. If they experienced tha angst of being in amongst sheep posing as one and yet being fully wolf, oh! Yes Oh! The sheepanity of it all. The stress of staying under all that wool while knowing full well that by the by, I am WOLF. No wonder the pacified lion is the preferred intruder. He don’t even have to hide, man!

And so he lies down. The lion, the clown, the knight, he lies down. One Lion of a Clown he is, yes sir. And the end thereof is to whit the end, no more, no less. Nonetheless he survives the blight. He survives, and WINS the fight. Who’d a thunkit! He had all the might with which to dance and punch and prance and sting without the slight – est bite. Whipping like a kyte his eyes darting forth and back but not in fright; NO! In rhythm, rather, to the time of a man’s sprung bok, back-bobbing big head, rolled this way and that by hard and fast fists of flight and may I remind you: his name was Knight. Flying, flaying fists-a-bangin’. What a name his, that Knight! Word spread of his fists that fly like kytes. Word spread too that this knight could not, would go down to sleep without his precious wall-mounted night light. And sniggers of childish admiration lifted him and his glorious name and deeds to vast heights, forgiving him his night light blight.

But he supposed ta be a PACIFIED lion. What he doin’ with all them fists-a-flying. Off the cuff one might smartly remark that it someone must have tweaked him in the nose. Someone must have pulled the dyke stopper. The ones in the know, know what happened to the Lion Clown who lied down. Lets go ask them shall we? But before we go there’s some things for to you I must show. First of course that the way to the truth of the lying down lion clown is one of treacherous and steep slope. Then through the desert surrounding Dubai, this way, that way passing Bedouin Khaimahs billowing Shisha and Arabic lore… Then, in the distance LOOMING half covered in desert sand, the feet of an IDOL, a brought-down warrior and a plaque on the feets pedestal reading thus: “"My name is Bullooshimandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!" Nothing beside remains: round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away, (with apologies to P. B. Shelley). Ready for your future Dr. Who?

Fangs bared, the monkey gained on him with the effortless muscular coordination of a natural predator. In the quiet before sunrise, the sounds of the chase were weirdly amplified by the painted cement stairs: the panicked slap-slap of Buddy's bare soles, the monkey pushing off with his hand-like feet, the macho rippling of those simian gluteals. "Run!" I shrieked, unable to stifle my laughter. It would have looked less funny had Buddy's pursuer been a cheetah or a ferocious hippo, but even in the moment, there was something great about that monkey's indignation. Boy, you think you're evolved just because you're wearing pants? I'll show you who's the boss around here! Buddy leapt the final three stairs, thudding flat-footed to the roof. For some reason, the monkey drew up short. He probably reckoned it was beneath him to polish off such unworthy opponents.

Nonetheless, victory goes to Hanuman, Who is the ocean of knowledge and qualities, Who is the Leader of the monkeys, Who is resplendent in the three worlds, Who was the messenger of Rama, Who is the abode of immense strength, Who is the son of Anjani, and Who is known as Pavanasuta (son of the wind).