Guttersprites

Gargoyles: always too damn small,
A squander of a spitting spout –
An impish whisper, not a shout.
Apologies atop a wall,
Embarrassed to be there at all,
When always far too mono-grey,
And always, always too damn far away.
A shame, because their gothic clout
That any stonechip ought to flout,
Is blurred into a lump of flint.
And yet, there’s so much hidden booty
In their twisty, gnarly beauty,
If we’re just prepared to climb or squint.
But otherwise, these witty beasties –
Masterpieces, have no doubt,
A burst of sneer and snot and snout –
Will never scare the nuns or priesties !
Make them bigger !  Carve them deeper !
Ev’ry goblin, troll and creeper,
Give them gravitas and grout !
Let us see each gruesome grizzle,
Else the mason works their chisel
Long and hard for all of nowt,
And all those wings and fangs and scales
Are lost to time and frost and gales –
But most of all, to apathetic drought.
Don’t leave them overlooked, forgot,
Or we shall lose the lonely lot,
And long before their warts have weathered out.

Golden Ages Last For Ages

Every critic will tell you which is cool,
And which ones suck.
And we are happy to let them, fool !
For if they’re right, it’s only luck !
We trust them to know our own minds better,
And welcome their shame at our previous faves –
We beg them for news on the new trend-setter,
And willingly sign-up as slaves.

But if we’re honest,
Then we must let our guilty pleasures rule –
For only we know which are best
And those will always be uncool.
Whenever anyone states as a fact
That x is better than y,
It’s time that their advice was sacked –
Goodbye !

The golden age of art
Is the one we’re in right now, I say !
And ev’ry age before us
Was as golden in its way.
For ev’ry single year has seen
Our inspiration in the pink –
We’re loving it by millions,
Despite what critics think.

Moody Lintels

This building, is it still so great ?
No masterpiece or pioneer-
And now it’s looking quite a state,
And none too safe in brick and slate –
It really ought to face its fate,
Admit the end is near.

It did it us proud, it served us well,
But now it’s really past its best –
And as its city-centre dwell
Has far more worth as bank, hotel,
Or office block – we had to sell,
In public interest.

So down it comes, and in its place
Development beguiling new:
A fresh design this site will grace,
A source of jobs and conf’rence space –
We may yet choose to save the face,
And gut the insides through.

These architects with magic touch
That turns the golden into shite –
Their helping hand’s a concrete clutch
Which crushes, smothers eversuch
And chokes the life they hate so much,
Because it shone so bright.

And when they try to match the theme,
They cannot think along that line –
Just vague pastiche and stripped-down scheme.
Yet form must come from vein and seam
As penetrating all like steam,
And scream these forms are mine.

Their new designs cannot be stood
Besides the old, for both then wilt –
So segregate each neighbourhood,
And save the past whene’er we could
For once it’s gone, it’s gone for good –
Will never be rebuilt.

I n the last line of the second verse, ‘interest’ should be pronounced with three syllables.