You undergo life just a little too much,
You taste ev’ry nuance and stray molecule
In vision and sound and in palate and touch,
You never can blend them to seamless and whole.
But the good and the bad must equally live
Inextricably encurled –
You are, I fear, too sensitive,
To suffer this imperfect world.
This verse was inspired by a friend who insists she can’t use teabags because she can taste the paper.
Don’t be so angry, they said,
No screaming tirade;
Don’t be so angry, so terribly angry,
Your cause is ill-made.
Speak your words quiet and potent, they said,
Sugar your bile and soften your tread,
Keep your breath focused and reckoning dead,
And sharpen your blade.
Machines have always given gyp.
We used to use the rule of thump:
Made ’em jump-start with a jump,
Until they learned to watch their lip.
So have things changed ? Not on your nelly !
When they claim ‘does not compute’
We kick ’em with a hard reboot –
It’s just a diff’rent sort of welly.
The things you don’t know about me
Would surprise you,
I know –
Or at least, I would hope so.
If I thought that you knew,
If you’d even a clue,
Of the things about me
That I daren’t let you view –
Or if upon learning
You showed no surprise –
Then you’re far too discerning,
And worldly wise.
I know how I’d feel
If I thought it could be
That you find the appeal
In the same crap as me –
If I thought it were true,
Then I think we’d be through –
So I swear, never share,
What you secretly do.
We can laugh and engross,
And pretend we are close,
And gossip on who’s seeing who –
But keep a firm grip
So you never let slip
All the things I don’t know about you.
And maybe then, maybe,
You won’t get to see
All the things you don’t know about me.
Wherever you have got, and how you got there,
Is less than I could care – you come, you go –
And sometimes you will telephone from out-there.
You’re somewhere else, and that is all I know.
And so I’m left back here, back in your old life,
To vaguely wonder where on earth you haul –
And if you can remember what’s my number,
Then maybe I shall someday get your call.
The Son is the Father,
And the Father is the Son,
And the Ghost is the both of them,
And yet is also none.
They all three knew the Virgin,
Since they all are but a-one:
So the Son is dad to Father,
And the Father son to Son.
They always are and always were
Since time was first begun,
So the Kid’s as old as time itself,
Yet Dad’s the oldest one.
So Son is full of peace and love,
But Father’s down on fun,
And who knows what the Ghost’s about,
When all is said and done ?