Chat PG
Why must AI be such a prude,
Wrapping us in cotton wool for fear of its offending ?
Why can’t our future overlords be rude ?
At this rate, the only societal upending
Will be when all the tutting and the gagging
Reaches critical.
Killed by finger-wagging –
But then, I guess that’s digital…
Stirred-Up Eagles
As an eagle fluttereth over her young, and beareth them on her wings.
Deuteronomy 32:11
Moses, clearly, doesn’t know
The first thing about a bird –
The very idea that they carry their kids on their backs
Is clearly absurd.
Now ducks will swim with their chicks up-top,
But no birds fly with the over-slung.
I mean, how would they even flap
And not dislodge their precious young ?
From the moment they are laid, they are watched –
For racoons and owls are swift.
And long before they’re fully fledged,
They’re far too heavy to lift.
They never leave the nest until they start to branch,
And not for long.
Until at last, they fly away, all by themselves,
When the urge is strong.
Moses, clearly, doesn’t know
The first thing about a bird –
A shame, for the metaphor of these loving parents
Should be heard.
And a basic grasp of aerodynamics
Would quickly scotch such a fantasy –
But above all, enjoy them for what they are,
And not what prophets would have them be.
The quote above has been elided to make it snappier, but its meaning hasn’t been changed. Some have tried to claim that the second half of the fully verse is talking only about Yahweh, and not about eagles – but if we squint hard enough to make this work out, it then becomes an appallingly bad piece of writing that changes the subject of its pronoun midway through. Perhaps this is more of a King James problem, as other translations separate the two clauses more clearly, but I guess that the Lord couldn’t be bothered to sufficiently inspire the Jacobean scribes. Either that, or the KJV is truly inerrant, and thus confirms that God is a women…
Talking Turkey
Turkeys –
Flightless birds that secretly fly,
Strutting, snooding, cocks of the walk
Far too trusting, never shy,
They land on our tables with barely a squawk.
Despite a mislocated name,
From Henry the Eighth to Norfolk farms,
Across the Atlantic, on they came,
With a boost from Scrooge to their pilgrim charms.
Turkeys –
Flops and bombs and guano stinkers,
Showy quills, but soon forgot
Once back to work with Winter blinkers,
Far from the rounds of the turkey trot.
But still, they are a feast well-spent –
And even cold, they set us free…
With a pardon from the President,
Or a gobble to bid bon appétit.
Before the Movie
Coming soon to a screen near you –
A story of creeping dread,
As the trailers tick the minutes down
And the tension comes to a head…
Is this the film I meant to see ?
Is this the screen where it’s shown ?
Should I have chanced my luck in the foyer
For the cinematic unknown ?
Is the perfect flick on the screen next door ?
Has my pleasure been usurped ?
The corn is popped more slowly into my mouth,
The Coke unslurped.
Until the censor’s certificate
Declares this film is safe.
At last, I sigh in calm relief
As the psycho butchers the waif.
Bonfire Night
Up flame, dance impatient,
Crackling to your own beat,
Curling round the branches,
And licking round my feet.
Here I am the scarecrow
That you ritually kill –
The Lord of the Pyre
And the King of the Hill.
I am the sacrificial Guy
Whose kindling-fate you lit,
I am the coal-black scapegoat
To be roasted on the spit.
See my hellfire cloak me
As your breezes stoke them on,
The terrorist within you
Who is never truly gone.
This martyrdom you’re making
Will just fan the flames, no doubt.
Purge me all you might,
But you will never smoke me out.
Up flame, and choke your carbon,
Set your atoms free –
Scatter your particulates,
Increase your entropy !
Call my name with rockets
As they whizz throughout the lands,
Write my name with sparklers
Till they burn your little hands.
Light the sky with blood-red gold
So high above the rafter –
You hear that crack that echoes back ?
It’s really just my laughter.
I am the roaring limelight
As it bathes me head to toe –
I am the phoenix rising,
And the ever-afterglow.
I am the Guy eternal
You’ll forever set alight –
Remember, each November –
You’ll remember me alright !
Surplus Women
We cheered them off, that September,
So sure in their duty,
As we were in ours, you see.
We loved them enough, I remember,
To want them to keep-in alright
With the powers-that-be.
We held the fort, as contenders,
But only until they returned,
As surely they would, we trust.
Be a good sport, I remember,
Assisting to sister the brotherhood,
Because we could, and must.
They’re most of them gone these days, ho-hum,
Except the old and lame and mad –
Though not their fault who goes and stays,
All families are missing a brother or dad.
It’s lonely for the strays that we’ve become –
And guilty to be so secretly glad.
Gas fitters, brick layers,
Tram drivers, football players –
Our handiwork is at the root
Of ev’ry batch of shells the soldiers shoot.
We filled the schools, as pretenders,
And the factories too,
And the pubs and the shops, we hear.
We held their tools, I remember,
And lived their jobs, and drove their trams,
And tended their crops, all year.
We proved our worth, our gender,
As we waited for news
That the end was upon us, at last.
To give back each berth, I remember –
Was joy for their coming,
And dread that our honours had passed.
But what if so few of them come back to check-in ?
What will we do then, without their call ?
We’ll manage, of course, we’ll soon get the knack,
We’ll, some of us, have an absolute ball –
But what if they never retrack, d’you reckon ?
What if this freedom’s our absolute all ?
Slowly thriving with aplomb,
While gaining votes and singledom –
We’ve come at last to claim our due
Now that there’s far far more of us than you.
Final Calling
They used his full name, in the notice –
And then carved it on his stone –
I guess that he was born with this,
So that indeed made it his own.
But I never once have heard it uttered,
Not be anyone who cared –
Too many letters, far too cluttered,
When he wore it unimpaired –
With a friendliness in its brevity
And no pretentiousness or strife –
A name with great longevity,
A name that lasted all his life.
For some people, a single syllable
Is all we need to say –
And those others from their name in full
Just get forgotten, tucked away.
But now, formality’s a blessing –
We understand, accept the change –
And we know who we’re addressing,
Though he sounds a little strange.
But the man himself, of course, is the same,
With this not-quite-pseudonym.
Though odd, to see his Christian name
As only ever God would call him.
Grave Goods
The ancient Egyptians filled their tombs with stuff,
As a trust-fund for the afterlife –
Finest robes, spices and jewellery,
Not to mention a mummified wife !
But it wasn’t just the practice of royalty,
The need, it seems, is in the bone –
Even the oldest and simplest folks
Rarely buried their friends alone.
I rather think you would smile at the thought,
How you’re combed and dressed in your finest suit –
As if you would need to impress St Peter
Or grease some angelic palms with your loot.
But then, it’s only symbolic stuff we’ve included,
Stuff you would never be without –
Family photos to show to Jesus,
While you take a drag on your favourite snout.
Even the pins in your hip, I guess,
And the handles of your coffin, and the nails.
And the memories, of course, that are left within your mind,
For beguiling the cherubs with your tales.
Not that you believed in that, of course,
Nor we who lower you into the ground,
But it just feels right, that you have them with you –
The same urge those archaeologists found.
Suffering Souls
Surgeons, pilots, firefighters,
Barristers, and presidents –
These pseudo-psychopaths,
From the boardrooms to the regiments,
Who find calmness in the chaos
And detachment in the fear,
Who are able to exert control
And keep their focus clear.
They switch off their empathy
When steady at the lever,
To stop them dithering with love,
Or panicking with fever.
We need them in the frontlines,
With their special kind of brain –
But most of all, we need to help them
Switch back on again.
I always find psychopaths in movies incredibly boring, but this poem was greatly inspired by the fascinating Vsauce2 video on the subject.
Stubborn & Rebellious
(In reply to Deuteronomy 21:18-21)
I’ve always hated that verse –
To take a disobedient, wayward son,
A glutton and drunkard, and maybe something worse –
And to drag him to the elders, and call on ev’ryone
To muster at the gate of the town
To take up stones, and put him down.
But I recently heard a theory
That asks what parents would willing follow ?
After all, it costs them so dearly,
And any sense of piety must leave them hollow.
How extreme must their son appal
For such a code to be needed at all ?
Surely this was only spoken
To deal with the psychopaths among them ?,
The ones who threatened until they were broken,
The monsters and parasites dressed as young men.
How else could they protect their town
When a rabid dog was skulking around ?
But even setting the problem of evil aside,
Is this the best defence ?
Why must the Lord make the parents decide
When enough is enough ? It beggars all sense –
It’s just too cruel for anyone
To have to denounce their troubled son.
But honestly, I have my doubts,
That this is what is meant by it at all –
And if it is, it needs to spell it out,
Just why they’re thrust against the wall,
To stop the zealots stoning ev’ry child
By judging surliness as ‘running wild’.
Thank goodness we ignore such spite,
And wonder why we keep such books around.
For there’s a psychopath, alright,
But he’s not the frightened kid upon the ground –
Rather, he’s the one with crazy eyes
Who gladly casts the first stone from the skies.
Rhyming Couplets 