Richard Stevenson
The village of Blue
Bell Hill, near
Maidstone, Kent, is
said to be haunted,
so a psychic friend
and I went
to check out the BHM
and ghost reports.
Turns out the Big Hairy
Men might be
Somethin’ other
than British Bigfeet or ‘Squatches
windin’ their
watches. Could be the ghosts
of long-haired, bearded
Neolithic hunters!
All that extra hair
could be fur jackets and vests.
They march in and out
of hellmouth portals
near the Kits Coty House
stones – maybe
the last of their Stonedhenge
Neolithic church.
Hunters on a mission.
Intense mo’fo’s
with spears and hatchets,
jacked up
with stone age slogans
and testosterone,
intent on bringin’
home a Woolly Mammoth maybe.
Wrong time zone?
Who knows?
The whole quaint hamlet
seems like a wayback
machine. Geiger counters
go wonky. My friend’s
psychic radar’s barkin’
like a dog at some abominable
swamp slob.
Whole time I’m
thinkin’ yeah, well, why not?
Beam me up, Scotty.
There’s not a helluva lot
goin’ on down
here most weekends. I’m up
for a time trip.. De-materialize
me, please!
I’m not on my
knees, prayin’ for redemption or anythin’
I just think it would
be a gas to explore the past
by trippin’ the
light fantastic through a wormhole
aboard a saucer or on
an agnostic walkabout.
Think of it as Jurassic
Park – for real,
only safer than a boob
tube. No gamma rays
to pit yer ship or flip
grandma’s wig.
No babbling in tongues
or hallucinogens.
If the Blue Bell Hill
beast wants to materialize
for some feast in Eden,
cool; I’m down with that.
If he is some relative
of Gigantopithecus Blacki,
That’s wack, but
we can play in the same sand box.
Long as the portal don’t
give me
mental distortions or
cause contortions
or torque my body out
of shape permanently,
or I end up on some
creature’s plate, I’m great.
