I’ve seen too many doors, And they’re nothing much, just doors – Just as expected. I open them, I close them, Or I pass them by unnoticed, Disconnected. I’ve turned too many knobs And I’ve knocked too many knockers In the gloom, Yet never thought about them Till I find I need a way To leave the room.
I’ve seen too many doors, Be they oaken, deal, or plywood, Or cold steel. I push them and I pull them, Or I sometimes have to slide them With a squeal. I’ve crossed so many thresholds And I’ve stepped on many stoops, Both front and aft, Yet never thought about them Till I find I need a way To stop the draught.
Amazonian Guaperva Fish by Francis Willughby (at least, I think he did his own illustrations).
Fishes & Physics
Gentle Francis Willughby, To best of his ability Has written us a thriller – see, The History of Fish ! Illustrated lib’rally, Meticulous and jibber-free – No charlatan or fibber, he, But honest, if not swish. The Royal-dubbed Society Have praised his work most high and free, And published with propriety His dense and hearty dish – Examining their parity And countless similarity, To classify with clarity Each finble, scule and gish. His work will lead inex’rably To Karl Linné’s complexity And Darwin’s sexy theory That the bishops try to squish – Yet mocked in perpetuity, His book an incongruity, For lacking the acuity Of Newton’s masterpiece – His grandiose Principia, That makes the heavens trippier And gravity much nippier, Is straining for release. But things are tight financially, With profits down substantially And Newton sees his chances flee Despite the Fellows’ wish – They cannot foot the bill, you see, The budget’s blown on Willughby – But don’t show Frank hostility, He’s not so queer a fish.
The Rhinoceros by Albrecht Dürer, though don’t ask me if it’s the right way round.
Dürer’s-Rhino Syndrome
Toothy-mawed pteranodon, A stegosaur who drags its tail, Old T-Rex with no feathers on, Dimetrodon with a humpy sail – However much they’re wrong, At least they never hem or hedge – They’re always big and bold and cutting edge !
Pity the paleo-artists Who bring these skeletons to life, Who are the public midwife To a thousand playground dreams – No sooner have they started, When a fossil or a paper Is transforming facts to vapour And is picking at the seams.
One day, in a century, They’ll laugh at our sauropods For not swimming in the sea – No wonder how they look so odd… No matter how carefully We draw iguanodon his thumb, We are the Crystal Palace beasts to come.
Pity the paleo-artists, Their work is only for today – For if they don’t give way, Then their errors just persist. But don’t be brash or heartless – Their legacy is in the seeds That captures, stimulates, and feeds Each future dino-tologist.
Crystal Palace Iguanadons, sculpted by Benjamin Hawkins, photographed by Jes
Ev’ry thing I’ve ever heard is in me, Running through me, Lying low. Ev’ry song and ev’ry word within me Helps renew me, Helps me grow. I honour all who came before me, Credit all who built my story – Don’t forget and don’t ignore – For without them, then I would not be me, I’d have no core. But all their work is cogitated, Filtered, altered, complicated – All I ever loved and hated, Melts and bonds and stirs the pot of me In which they pour. Inspiration is no sin, But make it ours, and make it new – So add some flesh beneath the skin And add some point of view. All I saw and all I heard, I freely borrow, freely quote – But never, never word-for-word Or note-for-note.
I’ve always wanted to call my record label NCNS records, for ‘no covers, no samples’ – and both would be banned, only putting out brand new songs. But then again, there are numerous songs I adore that feature both, so I should watch what I say.
But on the subject of samples, can I have a quick grumble over the start of Two Tribes. We hear Patrick Allen’s voice lifted directly from the Protect & Survive public information film, but they’ve chosen a very ungrammatical moment: “The air attack warning sounds like. This is the sound.” Sounds like what, Patrick ? And then his next sampled line (“When you hear the attack warning, you and your family must take cover…”) is cut-off before the final words (“…at once”), given a very abrupt cadence. Are we to interpret this as the announcer being suddenly overwhelmed by the blast ? These two sloppy bits editing have been bugging me since 1984...
I remember Sunday afternoons And watching classic black-and-whites, Though not so much for giant apes, Or top hats, kanes, or men in tights – But all my fascination fell On the opening seconds-worth, Wond’ring at that giant mast, And where its feet made earth – Novaya Zemlya first, for one, And Svalbard, I concluded, next, Then Ellesmere Island for the third, But the last one had me vexed… There’s nothing there but shifting ice, Though far more then than left today – It’s just as well they’d long gone bust Before the ice gave way.
Angels in the ceiling, salvation in the needles, Organ practice in the air, the bishop looking proud – Gone is the busyness of canons, deans, and beadles, But the locked-up church can once again give welcome to the crowd. Monks used to pray here, monks who ministered the sick – But these days it is nurses who are rolling up the sleeves. So what would Jesus say at their death-defying trick ?, Their communion, regardless what each congregant believes. Would he drive them out, back to their lab’ratories ? Or would he get stuck-in with his newfound clientelle ? Stained-glass in the windows, telling ancient stories – Maybe in a thousand years, they’ll tell this one as well.
Strictly speaking, there were no monks at Salisbury, but rather secular canons. These performed the same duties, but weren’t under a monastic rule, and lived in the town rather than in adjacent cells. Sort of like day-pupils rather than boarders.
When did cars become so boring ? When did roads become less roaring ? When did bland become okay ? Paintjobs dull as office flooring – Offered in a monochrome of grey.
Call it Silver, call it Graphite, Brooding Shadow, Summer Midnight Any guff that comes to mind – But once we see them in the light You’re surely fooling no-one but the blind.
White and black are offered too, And boy, that’s really big of you, But what will people think ? Leary over red or blue, And terrified of lemon, lime, or pink.
Remember – we were bright and fun Before the mortgage and school run ? Oh, we were colourful and proud ! The dial tuned to Radio 1 – Not Archers, Proms, or Magic, not too loud.
The reason, I suspect, is that Our Chelsea Tractors grew so fat Our excess-baggage showed. And so we dressed them down in matt To blend in with the tarmac of the road.
And as a side-effect, we get To hide the dirt and hide the threat That purple-headed Greens advance. So boring cars are worth it yet To motor on in blissful ignorance.
Statues – guardians of civic pride and retail, And dressed in the city’s stones to match – Though bronze is rather dark for showing detail – A bright day is essential, and a good eye to catch. Otherwise, they’re lumps of grey we walk by ev’ry day, Dispatches from the past that we’ve forgotten – Best they stay anonymous, it’s far more fun that way, Than a boring Lord of Borough-on-the-Rotten. Never read the base in any case, that’s all the past, Let’s privately recast them as we like – Look into each graven face and let our fancies race, With this one Lady Shazza, and that one Pikey Mike. And as for any new ones – make them allegorical, As abstracts taking on the human form. They can’t cancel concepts when cast in metaphortical – Why must this hero-worship be the norm ?
I’ve never been one for remembering the worthies in lumps of dark, dull bronze whose features are more often lost in the overcast light. The ancient world painted their statues, and indeed painted their churches, but we’re far too puritan for that these days. But if we are to have them, let’s make them allegorical (and not necessarily female)…
Although having said that, I’ve also said the exact opposite over here. Also, there are two adjacent works at Hyde Park Corner which undermine my argument – one being Francis Wood’s Machine Gun Corps depiction of the Biblical David (despite the wielders of machine guns in the trenches being the very epitome of Goliath), appearing irrelevant and cliched when overshadowed by Charles Jagger & Lionel Pearson’s very literal Royal Artillery Monument (although in my defence, all of the supporting figures are suitably anonymous, including my favourite the Angel of Death).
We knew how it would end-up from the very first – Someone blabbing to a tabloid hack. Those who spaff the spoilers are the very worst !
Some can’t keep a secret and will always burst Spilling the surprises shows hold back – We knew how it would end-up from the very first.
Some folks love to chatter till they’re well-rehearsed, And can’t resist the calling of the craic – Those who spaff the spoilers are the very worst !
Ignorance is fragile, anticipation cursed, Our ears must hear the constant yack-a-yack – We knew how it would end-up from the very first.
Impatience is a burden with a raging thirst, And throws all expectation out of whack. Those who spaff the spoilers are the very worst !
Once the gaffe is blown, it can never be reversed, The clever twist can never land its smack. We knew how it would end-up from the very first… Unless…it’s just a ruse to throw us off the track…?
The Pont Neuf, Paris by Baptiste Androuet du Cerceau & Guillaume Marchand, with a proposed parasite on top by Stephane Malka.
Constructivism
When I talk with my lefty friends On art and architecture, They all are oh-so-modern in their taste. And so I have to talk to them On anything but architecture, All to keep things sweet, if rather chaste.
So what’s this style that they’ve embraced ? A smashing of the ruling class ? A break with endless cut-and-paste, debased In choc’late-boxy quaintness ? So is a love for steel and glass A love for unconstraint-ness ?
But when I talk with the lovers of The column and the arch, We have to keep the topic to the stones, For stray to social policy, And progress on the march, And I quickly learn they’re Tories to their bones.
So what’s this style they’ve seen replaced ? A harking back to Empire ? Of seeing Albion defaced, disgraced, Encased in brutalism ? So is a love for dome and spire A love for old-time feudalism ?
On one side are better lives in ugly buildings – On the other – palaces, but for the rich. And yet the latter need what brother-artisans are skilled in – Frescos, gargoyles, heraldry – the very things we’re told are kitsch. But have we really got no use for them ? Can we not have our peace and rights and social care, And still have ornament to spare To build our new Jerusalem ?
Rhyming Couplets 
