We’ve all heard the stories in the school lunch-queue, Every village has its ghost or two – Headless horsemen, women in white… ’Course, we don’t believe you, and you’re just kidding, right ?
Witches had a presence – there was always one around, But werewolves and vampires, were rarely ever found. We knew them from the telly, sure – a terrifying throng, Yet somehow in the villages they didn’t quite belong.
And then there was that weird guy who hardly ever spoke, Since ever since he’d lived alone, and never smiled at folk, And his house was full of boxes full of empty snail shells, And it made these funny noises, and sometimes funny smells.
The heroes of the playground were the locals who won’t rot – The strangled and the drowned and the poisoned and the shot. Spirits of our neighbours – though they’re long since dead and gone – Except, of course, they’re not. They’re out there. Pass it on.
Listen to the east-wind as it rattles at the window latch… Listen to the mice behind the skirting…scritter-scratter-scratch… Listen to the garden foxes gnawing on some unearthed bones… And listen to the creaking and the thumping and the sighing groans…
Now the sun has gone to bed and now that night has spread its gloom, Then shall I tell you, children, of the ghost that haunts this very room ? Listen closely…closer still…behind the death-watch beetle’s click… And there he is…the ghost of time…the never-ending tick-tick-tick…
Shall I tell you, children, shall I tell you what is worse than witches ? Scarier than sprites and spectres…filling sleep with sweats and twitches…? Listen then…and listen for the tiny voice on nights like this… The tiny voice that ev’ry child must hear…must hear its icy hiss…
Never witches…never spectres…nothing ever living on… Nothing from an afterlife, and nothing but oblivion… Listen…can you hear it ? Can you hear the voice from the abyss…? Listen to the tiny voice that terrifies on nights like this…
Halloween, when the dead don’t walk, The wraiths don’t keen and the sprites don’t stalk, The shades don’t slink, nor devils prowl, The vamps don’t drink, nor werewolves howl.
Halloween, when the dead stay dead, The walls aren’t green and the sheets aren’t red, And physics’ laws still reign supreme – We’ve got no cause, yet still we scream.
Halloween, when the ghoul-less roam, Or sleep serene in their haunt-less homes – We walk this night with carefree airs, And won’t take fright, nor whisper prayers.
Halloween, when the kids raise Hell – It’s always been within their spell. They may look gaunt, but fake their gore – They only haunt from door-to-door.
Halloween, when the pumpkins smile, And folks convene in a gothic style – With tongue-filled cheeks and boozy breath, They dress as freaks and laugh at Death.
Halloween, when the graves aren’t stirred, The ghosts aren’t seen nor the banshees heard. Yet still we fret by thinking dumb When we forget how far we’ve come.
Halloween, when the mind plays tricks, And the silver screen gives us frights for kicks. For this one night, let’s dig suspense – Just don’t lose sight of our common sense.
Lookit all you zombies, living lives like you was thinking – But I know you’re just the puppets to the Codebooks in the sky. Lookit all you statues – yeah, you don’t fool me by blinking – Cos I know you’re really dummies – and the suck is, so am I ! Ev’ry single doll of us is following the Script With its plot for ev’ry atom all controlled in all its jazz – Gotta keep ’em tight in line, you can’t have strays or space-time’s ripped, And then how can the Future come to pass like it already has ? Of course, it’s all that Albert’s fault – Him and his flash equation. Had to open up the vault, Loose the tachyon invasion. Had to prove, and quite routine, His theory for the time machine. And whoops, he’s sent our free will sinking. Hello zombie, goodbye thinking.
Now when it comes to sci-fi, I can take a little licence – Like your artificial gravity – we know all that’s all bunk – And beaming-down and warp-speed – well, the concepts have entice-ence – We all so want to so believe, like any cyberpunk. But daddy of them all, be it phone-box or DeLorean, Is scorching up the past-times when they ain’t so dead and gone. Sticking-up two fingers to the know-it-all historian, And making sure our parents got to meet and get it on. But don’t you see the problem here ? The Future is already there – And all we do must all adhere To make it happen right and square. So ev’ry choice is just a lie, We’re ruled by Codebooks in the sky, We’re patsies with our choices stripped, We’re puppets to the Master Script.
Lookit all we zombies, living lives like we got lives to live, And not some pre-determined plot to parrot as we plod. Lookit all we androids, got our program and executive, To serve the algorithm of our micro-managed god. Ev’ry single slob of us is following the show, With the final season written long before the pilot aired. But we’re still convinced it’s streaming live, and watch it blow-by-blow, As we’re stuffing-in the popcorn – yet we none of us are spared. We’re doomed to planned banality… Unless…old Albert’s wrong instead ! And if infact causality, Just like us zombies, is undead… But how can Time and Space apply Without the Codebooks in the sky ? Yet if the Future ain’t our grey-boss – Goodbye zombie, hello chaos.
I love the way your halves combine. I love the way you place each lung With careless grace and good design On either side your centre line, And equidistant from your spine. I love the way your ribs are strung.
I love the way your shoulders fit, I love the way your arms construe. I love the way your kidneys sit, So each, the other mirrors it To keep the couple quite legit. I love the way your hips are two.
I love the way you wear your legs, So nicely paired, and just enough – For with a third, the question begs Of where upon your frame it pegs. I love the way you keep to regs. I love the way you’re up to snuff.
I love your face with eye and eye, I love the way they both are blue. I love the way they flit and fly In unison, to watch me pry Upon thy tygrish symmet-try. I love the way you’re balanced-through.
The penultimate line is inspired by how I always read the fourth line of a certain poem of William Blake’s.
The time upon a clock is always wrong, For any two will not concur – Some dole their endless stock of seconds long, While others scatter theirs a-blur. So never trust upon a clock: ’Twill gain a tick but lose a tock.
Who was it brought flood and killed Now all bar eight and two-by-two ? And who was it the plagues fulfilled, And ev’ry firstborn slaughtered through ? And who was it dictated Law With racist hates and petty spites ? And who was it commanding Saul To genocide Amalekites ?
Who was it with love divine Came not with peace but with a sword ? And who was it made Constantine Kill all who prayed to Jove as Lord ? And who was it Indulgence sold, And rent the schismic Church apart ? And who was it sought relic-gold, And clast the icons, smashed the art ?
Who was it turned Papal might Crusading east with zealous cares ? And who was it sent butcher knights To Temple Mount and Friday Prayers ? And who was it built witches’ pyres ? And made that bigot Luther split ? And who was it filled Henry’s ires, And Bloody Mary’s roasting spit ?
Who was it set Cortez loose, And murd’rous-censor Thomas More ? And who was it hid child abuse ? And Cromwell’s terror ? Holy war ? And who roused Torquemada’s will ? And Galileo’s truths deny ? And who keeps Ulster troubled still ? I swear it wasn’t I.
I am the product of four-billion years-worth Of winners and breeders, and fighters and choosers. But now they shall wither, extinguished forever – For billions they flourished, yet still wound up losers. But hold on, my genes are my sister’s, my brother’s – They’ll swim through the side streams, these spawny succeeders. For they are the product of four billion years-worth Of fighters and choosers, and winners and breeders.
