Munni Mann: or, A Vision in a Dream by David Braund

Munni Mann: or, A Vision in a Dream

A Fragment (consider revising) (Interrupted by a personal computer from Bluescreen)

I had just put the finishing touches to my ‘The Unrime of the Old Salt’, * which I’d been persuaded by certain parties to expand up to as much as three verses, when I was awakened by a persistent knocking. Flinging up the window, I could see at once that my Bluescreen order must have arrived. “Lob it over”, I said to the deliverer as he waved his mobile touchscreen towards me. “No can do, Squire”, he replied. “You have to sign it with the pointer.”

After this it’s a bit hazy. I must have signed somehow because when I next woke up, the man from Bluescreen had disappeared and the boxes were still there. (At this point I must confess to having helped myself to a fairly generous slug of Naughty Boy’s Friend so it’ s possible I did take a short nap before going out and retrieving the boxes.)

Next thing I knew I was unpacking the boxes and arranging everything on my trusty old work table. I was getting rid of (finally) my ancient Doors 3.78 machine and replacing it with this fully featured Doors 15.1, including the very latest touchy-feely knobs and knockers and fantastic multi-wobble bell tones. What’s more, everything talked to everything else wirelessly, so I had nothing more to do than plug it all in and sit back and wait. Plugged it in, napped, switched it on. Absolutely nothing. Hours on the phone to Bluescreen, worse than useless.

Finally, I accepted defeat, pushed it all to the end of the table and put back in place my old Doors 3 machine. Almost at once, I found myself typing something in. The words appeared before my eyes as if someone else were writing them. I was like someone possessed. I felt a terrible surge of sobriety. All the phoning and trying out had kept a glass from my hand. My clear headedness was going to my

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head. I knew I would suffer for it later but I couldn’t stop. The ideas just kept coming, however fast I got them down.

Four stanzas (and not just four-liners) scrolled themselves down the screen. And then all at once there was this horrible cacophony. The stuff at the back of the table started vibrating. The screen lit up and began flashing. The Bluescreen logo was disappearing and reappearing in ever more lurid colours and an incessant ringing and knocking drowned out all thought of thought. I tried to grapple with the controls, finally gave up on it, yanked out the plug and downed a severe dose of Naughty Boy’s. I think I may then even have dozed off.

The next thing I remember, everything was normal. The four stanzas stared back at me and all I could think was: “Where the policeman did that come from?” There wasn’t an original thought in my head as I reached for a fresh bottle of...

In Albion did Munni Mann A sleazy treasure house decree: Where Thames, the tainted river, ran Past bank vaults numberless to man Down to a fished-out sea. So twice five miles of cut and thrust Housed wharves and towers built fit to bust; And there were rooftops bright with swimming pools, Where blossomed many a money-laden spree; And here were mores ancient as town walls, Including scandal, fraud, chicanery.

But oh! that deep financial spasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a hedge fund cover! A savage place! unholy and affronted As e’er upon a haven isle were hunted Tax dodgers wailing for their own dear mother! And from this spasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,

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As if the men in braces red were heavy breathing, A money-laundry momently was cast: Amid whose swift half-intermitted blast

Transactions fizzed like bats from hell Or deal on deal beneath the addict’s spell: And mid these dancing flights at once and ever It flung up momently the tainted river. Five miles meandering with a hazy notion ’Twixt poor and rich the tainted river ran, Then reached the bank vaults numberless to man, And sank in tumult to a plastic ocean; And ’mid this tumult Munni heard from far The same old voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the house of treasure Floated midway on the waves Where were heard the gasps of pleasure From the launderers, money slaves; It was a miracle of rare device A money treasure house with heart of ice!

A gentle with no love for war In a vision I recall: It was an Internationalist And with his speech he raised his fist Calling for fair shares for all. Could I revive within me The tenor of his thrust, To such a deep delight ’twould win me, That with others true and just I would pluck that house from air, That sleazy house! those hearts to break!

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And all who heard and all who cheered, Now all should cry, Feel weird! Be afeared! His red-rimmed eyes, his crazy beard! On your knees, despair and quake Tighten your belt, get used to bread, For he on all the cake hath fed, And drunk too much to stay awake.

* Unfortunately, no traces of this have ever been found.

(Apologies to SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE)

David Braund

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