Halloween falls as the clocks fall back, When once-more twelve is the mid of the night – The dark comes early, and properly black, For who’s afraid when the twilight’s bright ? Gloom and confusion become our friends To let the pumpkins glow so clear. Halloween falls when Summertime ends, When once more Winter’s the heart of the year.
So once again the world continues its Great War cosplay of tinkering with the time to appease a couple of farmers and the zombie lurch of tradition.
The Grim Reaper by Thomas Roth, showing a sculpture by August Schmiemann.
Appointments in Samarra
I meet the very best of men, too late, At their very end, I meet the kindest women, small and great, As they unblend. I also meet the very worst, But even they become un-cursed – I always find their goodness first, Each temporary friend.
I couldn’t say what sends them on their way – Biology or fate – Who knows what dividends await ? I’ve lost track of the holy text. I only get to spend a beat or two, To take them by the hand, And help them pass on through To whatever land shall be their next.
I meet the very best of folk, And always just in time, For one last breath, for one more joke, Before they quit their prime. I know not why it has to be, That sand runs out so fast – But what an honour now for me To meet with you at last.
The title is a nod to William Maugham’s 1933 play Sheppey which, besides from being a rare celebration of working class life in pre-war Britain, also popularied an old Arabian story. It’s so well told that it’s a shame to have to point out the absolutely zombified worldof Predestinationit implies.
Sheppeyhas always interested me for making me aware of British plays that celebrate working class life long before John Osborne’s Look Back in Anger. I’ve since also dicovered Howard Brighouse’s Hobson’s Choice(1915), Githa Sowerby’s Rutherford & Son, and Stanley Houghton’s Hindle Wakes(both 1912). The latter is particularly fascinating for showing a young woman who spends a dirty weekend with the boss’s son, refuses to marry him, and shows no remorse and receives no come-uppance. I wonder if its being set in the North helped it slip past the Lord Chamberlain ?
The Wiccans are newer than Mormons, Are older than Jedis, As ancient as Hubbard and Xenu. For all that they claim to be Pagans, They’re Beatniks and Hippies, And Goths in a green hue.
And that’s all fine, They’re free to be free – With crystals and Maypoles and love-spells galore. But there’s a good reason They call it all New Age – There never were witches at Salem, for sure !
So write your magick with a K, And write your faerie with an E, And dance around Stonehenge all day – But you ain’t fooling me.
These magpies of Masons and folklore Make far more sense As their Twentieth-Century selves. The Wiccans belong with the Martians, From skiffle to hemp-heads – Suburbanite dreamers and nuclear elves.
The clock is ticking, Fuse is lit – So no more bricking, This is it ! Oh no, There’s still a long and rocky road to go. Let’s chomp down on the bit, For we’ll never get to reap unless we sow.
The walls are shaking, Floor’s on fire, The news we’re breaking’s Looking dire – Whoa-whoa, Looks like we’ll have to take this blow-by-blow. For if we don’t aspire Then we’ll never overcome the status quo.
Our spirit’s flagging, Muscles cramp, Our mojo’s sagging, Powder’s damp – How so ? We’ve faced the ebb, now let’s surge with the flow ! So up-and-at-em champ, Cos when danger’s high, it’s too late to lie low.
We’re all we’ve got, Let’s try somehow, The iron’s hot, The time is now ! Hey-ho, Let’s buckle-up and get on with the show. It’s time to give this world some wow And leave behind a golden afterglow !
You told me how you loved me, As deep as the magma beneath our very feet – Erupting, flowing, building, forever, Melting the stoniest heart with its heat. You told me how you loved me As tall as the Andes, and ev’ry bit as tough – I thought we were raising mountains together, But in the end, it was nothing but a bluff.
Chickens can fly, if they want to, Turkeys too, Though they rarely do. Peacocks can manage the haul, Tails and all, When they need to shoo. So don’t let anyone tell you That they’re grounded – he hasn’t a clue. They may be lazy, yes, And yet these flightless always flew.
There’s some things I’ve forgotten That I know that I’ve forgotten – That I notice where the hole is, Where the synapses are rotten. Yet there’s other things, I swear, I never knew, were never there – But they clearly weren’t important As they fall into the air.
Fiddlers do it on the bias, Swaggering about the shore – They lope-along lopsided With one pincer too-provided-for. An asymmetric sexual signal – Over-big, a pumped-up rig, To wave it peek-a-boo. I wonder if they topple when they do ?
