Overwhelmed by Subtlety
You undergo life just a little too much,
You taste ev’ry nuance and stray molecule
In vision and sound and in palate and touch,
You never can blend them to seamless and whole.
But the good and the bad must equally live
Inextricably encurled –
You are, I fear, too sensitive,
To suffer this imperfect world.
This verse was inspired by a friend who insists she can’t use teabags because she can taste the paper.
Walking with Scissors
Don’t be so angry, they said,
No screaming tirade –
Don’t be so angry, so terribly angry,
Your cause is ill-made.
Speak your words quiet and potent, they said,
Sugar your bile and soften your tread,
Keep your breath focused and reckoning dead,
And sharpen your blade.
A Fate Worse Than Death
Forget all choice, forget all thought,
Forget responsibility –
For ain’t you heard they’re worth as nought –
Our will is broke but sure ain’t free.
For all the world is but a stage,
And all its folk are actors thence –
With scripted lines on unseen page,
Directed by the Higher Sense.
For take one atom, set it stray,
And watch it ripple, interact –
With those it wasn’t meant to play,
Till all those careful plots are wracked.
But if our input’s fake and stripped,
Then thinking such seems wry to me:
For saying thus, we speak a script
With wicked sense of irony.
My words, my moves, my thoughts ain’t mine –
The puppeteer, he runs the show.
It isn’t me who writes these lines,
For they were written long ago.
Ah, predestination – the only downside of time travel.
Moody Lintels
This building, is it still so great ?
No masterpiece or pioneer-
And now it’s looking quite a state,
And none too safe in brick and slate –
It really ought to face its fate,
Admit the end is near.
It did it us proud, it served us well,
But now it’s really past its best –
And as its city-centre dwell
Has far more worth as bank, hotel,
Or office block – we had to sell,
In public interest.
So down it comes, and in its place
Development beguiling new:
A fresh design this site will grace,
A source of jobs and conf’rence space –
We may yet choose to save the face,
And gut the insides through.
These architects with magic touch
That turns the golden into shite –
Their helping hand’s a concrete clutch
Which crushes, smothers eversuch
And chokes the life they hate so much,
Because it shone so bright.
And when they try to match the theme,
They cannot think along that line –
Just vague pastiche and stripped-down scheme.
Yet form must come from vein and seam
As penetrating all like steam,
And scream these forms are mine.
Their new designs cannot be stood
Besides the old, for both then wilt –
So segregate each neighbourhood,
And save the past whene’er we could
For once it’s gone, it’s gone for good –
Will never be rebuilt.
I n the last line of the second verse, ‘interest’ should be pronounced with three syllables.
No Fish were Harmed…
And we can run, we just can’t lose the herds,
And we can fly, we just can’t dodge the birds,
And we can learn, we just can’t beat the nerds,
And we can sing, we just can’t learn the words.
More nonsense. This is the sort of thing I come up with when I have writer’s block. I think stuff like this is okay in small doses.
Through a Dark Glassly
I sit here so poised, just a-waiting to write,
Waiting for fresh inspiration –
And I sit and I wait for the flash and the light,
And the spark of the birth of creation.
But thoughts and ideas and visions I lack,
Just feeble attempts from a half-hearted hack,
I haven’t a notion that’s worthy a crack –
An impotent writer’s castration.
I sit here so poised, just a-waiting to write,
Waiting to fill up the hollow –
And I sit and I wait, but though try as I might,
I guess that I’ve nothing to follow.
My ev’ry polemic is written and done,
My anger is shouted, my wit had its fun,
My dreaming is dreamt and my grief seen the sun –
But ask me again come tomorrow…
Drowning in the Jordan
Dead of winter, and Josh drinks alone –
His birthday today, and the years have flown.
Thirty today, and what has he done ?
Never been married, never had a son.
He feels he’s achieved far less than he’d oughta
Whittling the wood while his life’s getting shorter
“Gimme a break, an’ I’ll set the joint humming,
I’ll give unto Caesar just what he’s got coming !”
“I’m gonna
Rise with the dawn to pray and sing,
I’m gonna
Rise with the dawn and bless the poor –
They’re gonna raise me up an’ crown me king,
An’ when they think me beat, I’ll be back for more !”
Dead of winter, and Josh drinks alone –
All night he’s preaching in his slurrey drone.
He’s wasted round here, his vital mission –
There’s plenty to hear him, but none to listen.
Already he’s had two more than he oughta,
Knocking it back as though it were water.
He bangs down his grail with an angry thud –
“Gimme another, cos this is my blood !”
“I’m gonna
Find me some fishermen, and practice how to talk,
I’m gonna
Find me some fishermen and go from town to town –
I’m gonna cross the waves if I have to walk,
And if you wanna stop me, you’ll havta nail me down !”
Dead of winter, and Josh drinks alone –
This world is a bitch and it needs to atone.
He’s got his sermons and hymns to dispense –
He’s telling his stories, but they don’t make sense.
“Why won’t you bastards listen like you oughta ?
Why won’t you hark to the lessons what I taught yer ?
The love of money is the root of all malign !”
But the barman doesn’t care as he charges for the wine.
“I’m gonna
Work with my hands till I raise some sparks,
I’m gonna
Work with my hands till they heed what I tell,
One day so these palms are gonna bear marks,
An’ if you don’t believe me, I’ll see you in Hell !”
Dead of winter, and Josh drinks alone,
He’s got his second wind, he’s rolling back the stone –
Says he’s gotta leave and join the cherubim,
To do unto others like they’d better do to him.
He knows he’s delayed for longer than he oughta –
Someone’s gotta be the Devil’s holy thwarter,
Someone’s gotta sow so the reapers reap their seedful,
Someone’s gotta help all the camels through the needle.
“I’m gonna
Quit this hick town and walk the Earth,
I’m gonna
Quit this hick town and bang my drum,
I’m gonna walk out and show them what I’m worth,
I’m gonna walk out till kingdom come !”
The Advent Carol
Who’s behind the first door ?
The solstice is behind the first,
The time the winter Sun is at his least.
Who’s behind the second door ?
The Sun again – the Sun reborn,
Who ushers in the great Midwinter feast.
Who’s behind the third door ?
The Holly and the Ivy are,
The evergreens who never drop their cloaks.
Who’s behind the fourth door ?
The Mistletoe ! The Mistletoe !
The green and living soul of sleeping oaks.
Day-by-day, let us remember –
These are the days of December.
Who’s behind the fifth door ?
Osiris, Mithra, Herakles,
And Zarathustra – age-old gods and myths.
Who’s behind the sixth door ?
The same Gods and their Virgin Births –
And each is born upon the 25th
Who’s behind the seventh door ?
The ancient and be-sandal’d Greeks,
Engaged in boozy Bacchanalia.
Who’s behind the eighth door ?
The ancient Roman copycats,
Engaged in likewise Saturnalia.
Day-by-day, let us remember –
These are the days of December.
Who’s behind the ninth door ?
It’s Nicholas, the bishop-saint
Who secretly leaves presents for the poor.
Who’s behind the tenth door ?
White of beard and furred of robe –
It’s Odin ! God of gifts and God of war.
Who’s behind the eleventh door ?
It’s Yuletide, when the Wild Hunt charges,
Through the sky and through the feasting halls.
Who’s behind the twelfth door ?
That’s Sleipnir, Odin’s flying steed,
Who lets him drop down chimneys when he calls.
Day-by-day, let us remember –
These are the days of December.
Who’s behind the thirteenth door ?
It’s Father Christmas, dressed in green,
While feasting heartily and draining beer.
Who’s behind the fourteenth door ?
Dasher, Dancer, Thomas Nast,
To bring about the reigning of the reindeer.
Who’s behind the fifteenth door?
The Ghosts of Dickens’ Christmas show
That even bustling London has its pause.
Who’s behind the sixteenth door ?
It’s Haddon Sundblom, illustrator,
Painting Coca-Cola’s Santa Claus.
Day-by-day, let us remember –
These are the days of December.
Who’s behind the seventeenth door ?
It’s Prince Albert’s Tannenbaum –
He’s bringing back the good old Christmas Tree.
Who’s behind the eighteenth door ?
It’s lots and lots of Christmas Cards,
Showing scenes of seasonality.
Who’s behind the nineteenth door ?
It’s Oxford Street illuminations,
Well-dressed window-shopping costs us nothing.
Who’s behind the twentieth door ?
A Turkey ! Waiting for the chop
With roasties, Yorkshires, bread sauce, sprouts, and stuffing !
Day-by-day, let us remember –
These are the days of December.
Who’s behind the twenty-first door ?
It’s robin redbreasts in the snow –
Though never three together, as a rule.
Who’s behind the twenty-second door ?
A Crib from a Nativity,
As seen on stage in ev’ry prim’ry school.
Who’s behind the twenty-third door ?
Her Majesty, with speech in hand,
Addressing all the little folks to carry on.
Who’s behind the twenty-fourth door ?
It’s Christmas Number One ! Our song !
We know the words, so once more sing along:
Day-by-day, let us remember –
These are the days of December.
And finally, the twenty-fifth,
So open up and see –
Why look, it’s Mum and Dad, and Gran,
And You, and You, and Me.
Cattle Prattle
Are Water- and Cape- the more closely related ?
Who knows ?
Why are those ‘true’ while the Bison are ‘false’ ?
I say they all are true buffaloes !
You label the grouping as polyphyletic,
Like ‘shrew’ –
But what does it matter their genes, when we’re talking
Of big things with horns that go moo ?
So pedants and cladists may mutter and sleight,
But Buffalo Gals, won’t you come out tonight ?
And did you know twenty-five cities and towns
Disagree ?
And how many towns in the States are called Bison ?
Well well, only three !
So don’t try and tell me I can’t call the bison
All ‘buffaloes’, mate !
Cos Buffalo Soldiers and Buffalo Bill,
And Buffalo Springfield and Buffalo Twill,
And the Buffalo Wings at the Buffalo Grill,
Tell me you’re way way too late.
So pedants and cladists may grumble and snide,
But Buffalo Gals go round the outside.
Taking Care of Business
Machines have always given lip.
We used to use the rule of thump
To make ’em jump-start with a jump,
Until their clutches got a grip.
So have things changed ? Not on your nelly !
When they claim ‘does not compute’
We kick ’em with a hard reboot –
It’s just a diff’rent sort of welly.
