Morning Glory, 3AM

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Morning Glory, 3AM

The night is still too warm, North of twenty –
Far too warm to sleep,
And through my open window, all the scents
Are on the rise.
The Moon is full enough, the curtains open,
Birds are yet to peep,
So I slip-on a tee-shirt, vaguely hoping
I can catch a prize.
In the kitchen, dregs of last night’s wine
Are worth a swig,
Then out into the garden, free of sunshine –
Less oppressing…
A hawkmoth buzzes audibly around the trumpets –
Wow, it’s big…
Now this is how Summer should be – less a slump,
And more a blessing.

No Minors

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No Minors

Trigger warnings won’t be given –
We’re all adults here,
Our actions can’t be driven
By a narcissistic fear.

Let’s take responsibility
To toughen up our health,
And learn some raw agility
To dodge stuff for ourself.

We cannot live in cotton wool,
Demanding privilege –
Let common sense become our rule,
And step back from the edge.

No-one supervises
What may raise a gasp or tear –
For life just loves surprises,
So we must be adults here.

Loo-zers !  Loo-zers !

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Football stadium scoreboard displaying 0-0 full time score with players and spectators
AI you say ? I think you may be right…

Loo-zers !  Loo-zers !

So much raw potential that’s about to go untapped,
With so much passing, pushing, crossing, till the clock has lapsed,
But if they can’t produce a goal, their efforts go uncapped,
Chopped-down to size –
And ev’rybody cries their unnecessary tears.
So much disappointment, with so many nils, so many draws,
And have you ever noticed that the other teams with epic scores,
They’re always someone else’s team, they never can be yours ?
The anguish wails –
And ev’rybody fails for another forty years.

Settling-Down

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I’ll Sleep Tomorrow by Flooko

Settling Down

Even on a peaceful night,
I wriggle in my sheet –
From the fidget as I try to lie –
To bare my shoulder, tuck my feet –
On this side, that side, wrapped-up tight,
Or sprawled-across the seam –
Until my breath becomes a sigh
And frantic thoughts become a dream.

Industrious Insects

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Industrious Insects

The busy bees of Manchester
Are busy hoverflies –
They flit about the branches there,
In black-and-gold disguise.
Perhaps they’re all more working-class,
Republicans in tile and glass,
Who swing their clubs to earn their brass
Across the smoky skies.

They may not make the honey,
And they may not make the wax –
But they pollinate the money,
And they pay their aphid tax.
They have no queens, they have no hives,
They live their solitary lives –
But close together, each one thrives
On cotton, silk, and flax.

Corten Steel

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Corten Steel

Our bridges are rusty before they are even open,
Clad in their ugliness –
They’re streaked and they’re stained with their spreadsheeted arrogance,
Shrugging with couldn’t-care-less.
So Brutalism continues its groping
In withered and leery undress,
With its surfaces tarnished and slumming advanced,
As it flakes and exudes under stress.

They really don’t look very sturdy to cope,
Whatever their builders declare –
With their rough-shod matt-faced blunt expanse
Whose corrosion hangs in the air.
They will fail.  But not because of their scope,
But because of the vision they share –
For the mind that puts rust over art and romance
Will decide obsolescence is fair.

Boring Boring Donkeys

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Boring Boring Donkeys

They couldn’t be arsed to win the game,
And neither could the other team –
They huffed and puffed, yet both ran out of steam.

The goals were few, the highlights same,
As no-one risked a probing lob –
Or knuckle down to do their bloody job.

“Winning is all that matters, though.”
They glumly would to explain,
As they stumbled through the motions once again.

They kicked-off from the very go
For penalties to come
The losers’ lottery for teams who put the hum in drum.

Were I their referee, you know,
The clock would be ignored –
I wouldn’t let them leave the pitch until a goal was scored.

The final whistle wouldn’t blow
Until they up-and play –
Until they got the message that they’d have to earn their pay.

Holes

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Holes

Our eyeballs have a hole in them –
To light the retina behind –
That’s what the pupil is – an orifice –
Without it, we’d be blind.
Our mouths are gaping portals to our tunnels –
Down our throats they wind,
On through our stomachs and our guts,
To exit at, well, nevermind…
And our bodies are a sieve, our skins are sponges,
Pores of ev’ry kind –
To let-in sound, or let-out tears,
How many more are there to find ?
It’s strange to think about, I guess,
But prob’ly best to be resigned –
We’re nothing but a Swiss cheese, really,
With a rent and ruptured rind.

Plead the Ninth

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I asked AI for moral guidance, and this is what it told me…

Plead the Ninth

What’s Commandment number Nine ?
The answer can be most revealing
Of the teller’s own Divine –

“Thou shalt not bear false thy witness.”
Here, I get the strongest feeling
Of some Southern Baptist business.

“Covet not thy neighbour’s wife.”
And here, the penitent who’s kneeling
Is a Cath’lic, on my life.

“Do not covet thy neighbour’s house.”
Now here, there’s sev’ral choices wheeling,
But Orthodox would be my nouse.

“Um…is that the ‘do not steal’ one ?”
While here, their dithering and reeling
Shows them for an Anglican.

“Bring the first fruits to thy Lord.”
And here, I’d wager that we’re dealing
With a Heathen making sport.