Demergence

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Demergence

How long should we leave the Lego built
Before we break it down ?
How long will the sandcastle stand
Before its turrets drown ?
How long should we sit back and admire
The finished jigsaw puzzle,
Till it’s taking up the table space
Where other things could bustle ?
Time then to embrace the entropy,
Disrupt the orthodox,
And smash the status quo with relish
Back into its box.

Britannias

Britannias

What ho !  I’m Ali,
Born in Cairo –
True-blue British, doncha know ?
Like squire Sanjay –
Mumbai-bred,
As English as a phone box red.
And then there’s Chang,
From County Down,
By bowler hat and Chinatown.
And Elzbieta,
Glasgow gal,
As fish-and-chips as any pal,
And Welsh Pierre
Of Montreal,
So fluent in the bat-and-ball.
The best of British,
Tweeds and cap –
As much as any other chap.

Fads & Fangles

H393 Old Grammophone by Ben Paul

Fads & Fangles

It started with vinyl,
Then moved to cassettes –
Now cameras use film,
And our watches use springs.
For all we progress,
So we harbour regrets –
The world has gone wireless,
But we long for strings.

We’re too young to ever
Remember those days,
But we switch-out the hoover
For artisan brooms.
I wonder what’s next ?
A typewriter craze ?
A love for old diesels,
Because of their fumes ?

We’re questioning science
Like never before –
We’re leery of vaccines,
We’re losing our spark.
I hope it’s a fetish,
And not something more –
We’ve no use for luddites,
Or Ages of Dark.

It started with vinyl,
Then moved to 5G –
It used to be fun,
Till the humour was gone.
But if it’s just fashion,
Then let’s let it be –
Be retro today,
And tomorrow move on.

Fascists

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Fascists

The Nazis used to be quite rare,
With few who earned the name –
But now it seems they’re ev’rywhere
And free speech is to blame !
These random people on the net
Who think they get a say –
I call them out as fascists, yet
Their views leap by the day
I put them down, but still them come,
Replete with facts and stats.
I can’t believe how many scum
Are lurking in the chats.
They should be rounded up, the lot,
And left to rot in Hell –
And if you disagree, a spot
Gets found for you, as well…

The Modernist Manifesto

Matisse’s Niece by Cesar Santos

The Modernist Manifesto

Painting’s hard, with all those tiny strokes,
And poem are endless rhymes,
And anyway, they’re the preserve of snooty folks
And so behind the times.
And architecture’s super-hard to build
With all that carving and stuff
I mean, who’s got the time to be that skilled ?
Let’s keep it brutally rough.
And music’s hard, not worth the perk
To learn an instrument –
Just sample other people’s work,
And pay them not a cent

Creating beauty’s hard, we can’t be arsed,
We’re far too lazy –
But critics dig our arsey arts,
And worship us like crazy.
Make it ugly, hard to parse,
This public-funded junk –
The future finds it vain and sparse,
Agog at how we’ve shrunk.
We’re sinkholes in the bedrock karst,
And ev’ryone knows we’re farces.
Amazing how we can’t be arsed,
And yet we’re up-our-own-arses.

The Oncoming March

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The Oncoming March

We’ll do it without you,
And do it despite you,
But change will hurt less
If we don’t have to fight you.

Stop us today
And we’ll come back tomorrow –
So join us in peace,
Or you’ll join us in sorrow.

Don’t stand in the way of momentum –
We just have to let it run-out its course.
For there cannot be both an unmovable object
And irresistible force.

We’ll bring it with vigour,
And bring it with pride,
But we’d far rather bring it
With you by our side.

It cannot be stopped,
But it still can be steered –
So jump on and help us,
Or get what you feared.

Don’t stand in the way of progression,
The start of an age is the end of an era.
The past is one day older each day,
And the future is one day nearer.

A new world potential
Is straining its fetter –
Don’t let it be wasted,
Let’s mould it for better.

The outlook is scary,
And noisy, and strange –
Best hang-on together
And brace for the change.

Don’t stand in the way of transmission,
The shockwaves and echoes will rebound for years.
The levees are burst and the dykes overtopped,
And the flood will not notice our tears.

Scuttlebutt Scandals

Scuttlebutt Scandals

Rumour, gossip, and have-you-heard
Are back with a careless, venomous word.
Scurrilous whispers have their way –
They’re good enough for Salem and good enough today.
So who needs doubt or burden of proof,
When the tales are better than the boring truth ?
When even liberals are mongering fears,
With two-faced lattes and schadenfreud beers,
And even the press has dropped its mask
Of public int’rest, and sunk to the task.
Rumour, gossip, and feathers-and-tar
Has shown us all for the shits we are.
That’s you.  Yes, you.  With your bleeding heart,
You’re ev’ry bit the hypocrite as any old fart,
You Guardian readers, as catty as The Sun –
A few lives ruined, but you’ve had your fun.

New Year’s Daze

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New Year’s Daze

Some years will start out with a bang,
In such a hurry to begin –
While others wake-up with a tang,
A few days late from lying-in.
They can’t remember what they sang,
They can’t remember how much gin –
They never bounded, never sprang,
With more a grimace than a grin.

And some years open with a vow
Of trouble brewing, much mayhem,
As worries knit our fevered brow,
And gall is tasted in our phlegm.
But on they came, they’re here now –
Let’s not be too quick to condemn.
I’m sure that we’ll survive, somehow –
We’d best get on with living them.

Solo Carol

Lonely Snowman by Stanley Zimny

Solo Carol

Looks like we’re on our own this year,
Just us and a million others,
The eccentric and the volunteers,
Cut off from our human brothers.
Some in Antarctica, some in their cells,
And some in their quarantine –
In one-bed flats and empty hotels,
With the world reached through a screen.
For the rest of the year, there’s nothing wrong with it,
It suits us fine, or we make the best,
But when the world gets the holiday spirit,
Then we’re suddenly nobody’s guest.
Looks like we’re on our own this year,
Remote from the thoroughfares.
Let’s sing like nobody can hear,
And let others fill our empty chairs.

The Ghost of Christmas Present

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     The Ghost of Christmas Present

When we were young, before we earned a good wage,
Then presents were the thing.
Whatever toy was all the rage,
We’d write to Santa, page by page,
While fully knowing, any age,
That parents were the ones who gave the bling.

When we were young, and hoping for the good stuff,
Then presents were the thing.
We dropped our hints, we played it tough,
We wanted this, and sure enough,
They’d always get us something duff,
From parents clutching hard to apron string.

When we were young, and pocket money spent fast,
Then presents were the thing.
We’d waited long these six months past,
Our only chance was here at last –
But no !  Once more we were harassed
By suitable and sensible and bettering !

When we were young…but now we’re good and older,
And presents are a chore.
We pay our own way, we are bolder,
We don’t need a toothbrush-holder.
What we need’s a crying-shoulder,
Not the same old ritual as before.

Now we are old, we buy throughout the year,
Yet presents still want more !
What can you get me ?  Dear oh dear,
I have all that I need right here.
Should I hold off acquiring gear
To add it to a list you’ll just ignore ?

Now we are old, and hopefully we’re wise,
And presents lurk in drawers.
Let’s be honest, compromise,
And save our gifts for the little guys –
Let’s pay it forward, share the prize –
Even though we’ll get it wrong, of course…