Frontispiece

bookplate

 

Frontispiece

On the Inability of many Victorians
to adequately append to their Dissertations
such short and succinct titular Benamings
as would better serve their weighty Publications
without exposure to crucial Details
of sundry Devices and Plots thus delineated
by which the presumed Reader is disprivileged
and their subsequent Enpleasurement undersated.

 

 

Brutalism

photo of brown red and white buildings
Photo by Aleksandar Pasaric on Pexels.com

 

Brutalism

The rich live in houses, the poor in cells,
This is how classes are classed –
From Kensington Gore to Tunbridge Wells
The best were designed in the past.
The poor get newer and concreted hells
That are decomposing fast.
Of course, the new could be just like the old,
But then they would all get far too bold –
So keep them ugly, keep them cold,
And build them not to last.

 

 

The Raggèd-Rouser Novelist

barrington
panel from a graphic novel by The Rickard Sisters

 

The Raggèd-Rouser Novelist

The trouble with writers, back in that day,
They never had chances to finish the job –
Just splash on the whitewash, any old way,
And promise and short-change and rob.
Too many loose-ends and threpenny warts,
Too many set-ups with no second coat –
Till Misery’s suddenly out of his sorts,
And the author is slashing our throats.

 

 

I came for satire, complexity, and human drama – but left with cyphers and a lecture…

 

 

Vaguely Georgian

identikit avenue

 

Vaguely Georgian

When I rail against the bland sterility of modern style,
Then this is not the antidote I seek !
These cut-and-pasted noddy-boxes miss the measure by a mile,
With all the mumbled sorries of the meek.
Sure, their bricks are red, their roofs are pitched, their gables high and wide,
But rooms are small and low, whose renders flake.
Windows (though they’re never sashed) may these days keep the warmth inside,
But why must all their glazing bars be fake ?
Of course, compared with houses of the past, they have a lot to offer –
Plumbing, carpets, wires and insulation –
But still they’re easy prey for ev’ry Brutalist and Bauhaus scoffer,
As these clones have spawned across the nation.
But worst of all, these mega-builders have the blueprints on their books
Of many variations on the theme –
And yet, in any field, they seem so terrified to mix the looks
Incase there’s fewer profits left to cream.
And oversighting councillors, with targets jacked and budgets slashed,
Are powerless or spineless to allay.
And so this new Jerusalem is jerry-built and pebble-dashed –
And yet, still beats a high-rise any day !

 

 

The Scream

screams
Warhol Scream by Arvid Andreasen

 

The Scream

Never mind the drama queen
Who’s posing by the railing,
As camp as a jellybean,
Just wibbly-wobbly wailing.
Never mind the sky of red
Or bay of blue-macabre –
Like Jupiter is overhead,
As streaky as the harbour.
Never mind if we can’t find
What makes the screamer crazed –
The couple coming up behind
Seem perfectly unfazed.

 

 

Papyrichor

woman in blue striped flannel shirt holding a book indoors
Photo by Daria Shevtsova on Pexels.com

 

Papyrichor

We all of us have sneaked a look
Beneath the fly-sheet of a book,
And fingered off her jacket, bared her boards –
Within, she’s nothing but a prude,
Her marbled end-sheets firmly glued,
Her bindings taut and frayless in their cords.
Her underwear is stiff and plain –
Her paper blouse must block the stain
Of endless greasy paws and sweaty hordes.
But she is flimsy in her gown,
It tears and creases, lets her down,
As grasping, eager hands make careless wards –
The better writ, the more she’s read
Until her spine is cracked for dead –
So dogs shall ear all good books, save the Lord’s.
And worse, the paperbacks !   Those dames
Who proudly bare their racy names
Across their breasts, like penny-dreadful broads –
Yet she too welcomes ev’ry leer,
Her first of many lovers here
Who gorge all words she joyously affords –
Though she’s still crisp and virgin-white,
Her pages quite uncut and tight,
That readers must tease open with their swords.

 

 

There Is No Canon

icra iflas piled book
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

There Is No Canon

Like me cos you like me,
Not because they told you what to,
Not because they told you not to,
Not because you think you’ve got to,
Like me just because you do.

Love me shrug me spike me,
However much they say you must,
Your own desire, I’m sure you’ve sussed,
Is all the taste that you can trust –
The others haven’t got a clue !

The world is laid before you –
There’s plenty who will tell what’s great,
And who to love and who to hate,
But never can themselves create –
But hey, we needn’t mind them.

So snub me if I bore you,
Don’t waste your time or waste your thoughts
On fluff and fads and p’raps-I-oughts,
But seek out diamonds from the quartz,
Wherever you may find them.