What could be more personal Than the name I bear through life ? Well…maybe it’s my mix of friends, And my one-and-only wife, Or maybe it’s my sense of humour, Maybe it’s my skills, Or could it be my fingerprints, My fripperies and frills ? At least I have a say in those, Unlike my bloody name – Which I have to share with countless others, Like we’re all the same ! We’re pigeonholed at birth, alas, While babes without a voice. So what could be less personal That someone-else’s choice ?
So you’re the new lad come to join me Digging graves for young and old ? I’ve started one if you’d like to see, Though a hole is not much to behold. But still, you’ve joined an honest trade – Now don’t stand gawping, grab a spade !
Yes, yes, I’ve heard the rumours too – When nobles die, the mill grinds fast. Poor lass, but that’s so often true – We only meet then at the last. They’ll bring her soon from out the kirk To rest within our handiwork.
At least her grave’s beneath a willow – Hope her shade enjoys the shade. She has a headstone for a pillow – Let her sleep, no more afraid. I’ve heard it said, since days of yore, All willows weep in Elsinore.
But as for those she leaves behind, I sense a civil war is brewing. Keep your head down, deaf and blind, Don’t worry what those lords are doing. The kings may change, but we’re still here, Digging trenches year on year.
We chafe our hands and break our backs Because a serf is born to toil. So when a king demands his tax, We dig his nation’s precious soil. And if another claims his throne, He gets to lie in here, alone.
Well, I’d say that we’re nearly done. So climb on out and take a breath. Then time to dig another one – There’s never any break from death. And if we’re heading for a war, Then we’ll be needing plenty more…
Of course, weeping willows were only introduced from China in the 1700s, And their early name of Babylonian Willow came from a mix-up by Carl Linneus who thought they were the trees referred to in Psalm 137 (“By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion. We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof.”) Alas, the trees in the ancient Euphrates valley were not willows at all, but their cousins the poplars.
The Steppers have gone, Stepped onto their parallels, Multiverse Earths, Nirvanas, or hells. And we’re left behind, We, the unsteppable, Sub-human luddites And wholly forgettable. My parents and sister Have forged for a new life A thousand-plus worlds From Datum’s own strife – They ran off to suburbs, (And took all the chairs), Where there’s fewer of my sort, And plenty of theirs. But me, I must lump it, I’m not worth the saving, I don’t get to witness The future they’re braving. They’ve promised to visit, Each decade or so, And write me, Though post is so terribly slow. And when they return here, It’s only to teach To their kids how to sneer, And to pity, and preach. I’m clearly not favourite, Just a mistake, I’m easy to leave When I’m too hard to take. Despised by my authors, Abandoned to rot, I’m just a disposable Cog in the plot, I’m holding you back, So you cut your son loose – With a smile from your god To condone your abuse.
Maybe there really was a guy who said, “Why can’t we get along ?” Maybe the poor sap went and wound-up dead, From when it all went wrong. And maybe his still-believing converts claimed He rose up from the grave, Like dozens of disciples of previous prophets Framed their loss to keep them brave.
Hardly a two-pipe problem, this. Not much call for the little grey cells. But round-up the witnesses if you wish, And compare the parallels. Now, how many women approached the site ? Three ? Or two ? Or one alone ? How many young men dressed in white ? Was there a guard ? Or tampered-with stone ?
We’ve so few clues for the how, why, or when, But remember the first rule of proof – Eliminate the impossible, Then what remains is likely the truth. Maybe there really was a guy who said “Let’s love our neighbours, hey ?” And maybe, alas, he really wound-up dead. And that’s all there is to say…
I know I’m just a killjoy, But today I have to ask, Can the News retain its dignity And not let slip the mask ? Best leave the April fooling To those more befitted to the task.
But then, I guess I am a fool To hold to my belief – When the News has always lied to us And manufactured grief. Moral panics, dirty tricks, Spaghetti Trees and San Serriffe.
I asked for a poem from the algorithm – It took the simple prompt it was given, And after thinking a second or so, The words began to flow…
And they were bad, man, Really bad – The scribbling of a mixed-up lad. Cos the thing with greenhorns, They lack know-how, But think the world must hear them now… Till one day, we’ll all look back and laugh, At AI’s opening paragraph.
Sure, they had rhyme and they had rhythm, Verse by verse, the cursor driven, Never knowing when it said enough, Just filled the screen with stuff…
But this was bad, man, Really bad – The first draft of an undergrad. Cos the thing with students, Is that they learn, Just practicing until their turn… Till one day, a beautiful work of art From a Turing Test will break our heart.
Beneath the Waves – Garden of Buried Hopes by Nightblue-Art
The Bootymen’s Air
There is, it’s said, a pirate ship That haunts the Caribbean. Or does she sail the Orient, Or pilot the Aegean ? Was ever there a stranger craft On which men went to sea on ?
No-one seems to know her name, For all she rides the swell. Some say she’s The Banshee, Some The Siren, some The Belle, Perhaps there’s plenty meet with her, But none who live to tell.
Yet one fact all agree on, Is you hear her when she nears, By a slow and lonely singing That the ozone brings our ears – And a world away from the racket Of the usual pirate jeers.
They claim that it’s her figurehead Who keens upon the waves – That is, it is the ship herself And not her crew of knaves, As she bares down on the helpless souls And sings them to their graves.
But eerier yet, her voice, they say, Will echo off the sea, And bounce upon the clouds and back While the breeze blows in her key, She sounds from all directions, And in perfect harmony.
So if you ever catch a snatch Of ghostly murmurings, And if your hold is full of coin And fingers full of rings – Then pray it’s just the whistling wind, And not the ship who sings.
The Grand Odalisque by Jean Ingres, remixed by Nicolas Amiard
Nothing below the Wrist, Nothing above the Clavicle
She had about her four tattoos, as I recall, Each one of which set within a sea of un-inked skin – So ringed around her bicep was a Celtic braid, And a seeing-eye was watching from her shoulder blade, While her backbone bore a butterfly, tucked in the small, And finally, a blood-red Moon where her ankle met her shin. She always seemed so prim, and with her bashful eyes, That her even having any came as some surprise.
Then one day, after we’d moved-in together, I noticed something odd upon her breast, above her heart – A kitten’s paw-print, still a little red with new. She shyly fingered it and murmured “this one’s you”. Unlike her bodywork, we didn’t last forever, But I saw her yesterday as if we’d never been apart – So easily we talked, it was quite a trip, Till I saw a rose was peeking-out upon her hip.
We barely care whodunnit, Since they’re all so terribly nice – Though one’s covertly cunning And would snuff us in a trice. But their manners are so proper, And they drive such classic cars, That we almost miss the copper As he bristles their handlebars.
They used to be so civilised in murder, Fatally polite – When an heiress couldn’t fall in ardour, Without falling from a height. Never threat’ning, always thrilling, When lit by candlelight or gas – Back in the golden days of killing, As practised by the upper class.
We already know whodunnit, Since we’ve seen the films before, But the costumes all are stunning And the country houses score – The accents are so chipper, And the backdrops are so lush, That we almost miss the skipper And the neck that he will crush.
They used to be so delicate in slaughter, Lethally adroit – With an intricate plot and a secret daughter, And herrings and twists to exploit. Never gruesome, always gripping, When the Empire was built to last – These treacherous tales are roaringly ripping, When safely in the past.
Rhyming Couplets 