Rhea transits Saturn in the Sun of the Enlightenment, Where gentlemen take note of nature’s law – A lecture is attended by the lovers and the children While a cockatiel is gasping out in awe. The Moon picks-out the industry that sculpts the new environment As Lunar Men are studying the bronze. And ingots glow on Progress and on all the craft she’s skilled-in In academies and clockwork pantheons.
Our bridges are rusty before they are even open, Clad in their ugliness – They’re streaked and they’re stained with their spreadsheeted arrogance, Shrugging with couldn’t-care-less. So Brutalism continues its groping In withered and leery undress, With its surfaces tarnished and slumming advanced, As it flakes and exudes under stress.
They really don’t look very sturdy to cope, Whatever their builders declare – With their rough-shod matt-faced blunt expanse Whose corrosion hangs in the air. They will fail. But not because of their scope, But because of the vision they share – For the mind that puts rust over art and romance Will decide obsolescence is fair.
Thank you for taking an interest In my world and my life and times – Well, not specific’ly mine, But those around me, and those that shaped me. Except… you only get to see A tiny slice of our paradigms – The few that were preserved, And yet most likely wholly have escaped me.
The art we leave is the art commissioned By those with means to commission art – And overlooks the many times I’m left to feel so left behind – Where nobody is saying the things I want to say, But where to start ? While all around are images That in no way represent my mind.
I am a part of my world, in theory, Yet wield so little influence, That I sometimes swear I’m an alien visitor, Stranded on a dead-end street. But what if every stranger around me Is thinking the same ? And yet the sense That what the Future will take from us Is simply that of a tiny elite.
I guess that means I’m probab’ly wrong About the Romans or Tudor-men – I don’t know bobbins about their likes And politics and dreams and stuff – Just because a certain art made money, For a few years then, It doesn’t mean it had a lasting impact Once it lost its fluff.
So thank you, Future, for your int’rest, But it’s only int’rest in A few strange costumes from our wardrobe, Picking apart the hem. I get it – you study what you can find, The memories you think we’re dressed-in – Even though we most-of-us never wore those clothes, But laughed at them.
That ain’t a Dodge ! What’s a Dodge ? Something Yankee. Just trying to bodge with some Hollywood chic. But this was the Eighties, Capris and Mercedes – American cars were all tanks, they weren’t sleek ! For no British kid ever did Know a Dodge – And no stodgy old hodgepodge Could juice-up your toy. So out with your Rambo, And give him a Lambo, For coast-to-coast pure post-apocalypse joy.
The image above is from Fighting Fantasy book 13 – Freeway Fighter (1985).
I asked AI to design some modern Major Arcana cards, so we have The Rebuilt Tower, and The Wheel of Cheese.
Aces Low
The deck is quite a chunk to ruffle, With their aspect ratio all wrong – They’re just too long. But practice helps the dealer shuffle, When they deal-out hands of eighteen-strong.
Tarot plays a bit like bridge – The bidding starts, the tricks are played the same, With points the aim. But choosing trumps is sacrilege – They never get to change from game to game.
The trouble is the cards we lay – For even when they bear French suits – and mind, They’re rare to find – But still they’re full of bullshit on display Just number them, and leave the rest behind !
I wish the trumps were double-ended – That’ll teach the fortune-telling quacks, Don’t touch our packs ! And to balance out the genders, Can’t the knights become the dames to beat the jacks ?
But no, we can’t enjoy our whist, Without our cards be saturated through With putrid woo. It doesn’t take a psychic twist For the twenty-one of trumps to beat a two.
You won’t believe how many times I had to ask AI to genenrate this image before it managed to spell it right…
Head up West and See the Lights
The neon lights of old Piccadilly-dilly Used to be so bright and silly-silly, But the screens have sprung-up willy-nilly – Boringly displayed.
Now there’s nothing but advert-a-go-go, Shouting products from ho-hum to so-so. Art and style ? I’m afraid that’s a no-no – Over and over replayed.
Sell more junk food, flog more bling-bling, Scream more news, from Bronx to Beijing-zhing, Punching eyeballs, all for kerching-ching – The goods must be obeyed.
The hungry billboards are always on-on The Eiffel Tower needs a new Citroën-tron. Buy buy buy till the stuff’s all gone-gone – As long as the profits get made.
I asked AI for an image to match the words – and I’d say it didn’t do bad
The Everlasting Subplot
Ev’ry movie, ev’ry story, Action, horror, western, crime – Whatever else our heroes do, They have to pair-off two-by-two. Yet even ancients found it hoary, Turning plots to pantomine – That for a tale to really sell, They have to fall in love as well.
It seems no genre is immune, Nor leading man is spared the job – It’s not enough to save the world, They also have to get the girl. And heroines can call the tune, But only with their hearts a-throb – For no adventure’s over till The audience have had their thrill.
I could have been a painter, With an easel and beret – See, I’ve got the temp’rament, And dreaminess, and enchanté. But I haven’t got the talent Or the patience of a saint – Yet I could have been a painter If I never had to paint.
I could have been a sculptor Pulling wishes from the clay, Or a jeweller, or a tailor, Had I diff’rent DNA. For I have an eye for beauty, And a right-brained attitude, But I’m lacking the dexterity To conjure up my mood.
I could have been an author, Building new worlds ev’ry day – But my penmanship’s too cryptic For my words to have their say. So I’m not in any brotherhood Who share philosophies, But I know where I belong, And it’s with people such as these.
I could have been a pianist, To score life’s cabaret, If my fingers would obey me, When I tell them what to play. I’ve always had a poet’s soul, It’s written in my glands – But I cannot hold my destiny Within my clumsy hands.
It isn’t easy being a new-build Here in Dorchester town, With such a shining example besides them, Flaunting its global renown. An over-achieving older-sibling, Rich in charm and style – Well, no wonder the new kids look so miffed, With not a facade with a smile. I guess their neighbour’s one-in-a-million, Bricks of a vanished strain – And that’ll explain why we’re so unable To build so well again… So the latest estates must make-do with bland, With a shrug from the half-arsed and bored, While the decadent suburb that lies to the West Is so desperately ignored.
Rhyming Couplets 