To sharpen the spur, To entice the remarkable Glow that’s igniting The will that is sparkable. Kindle its bright’ning, This newly-conceivable, Almost-achievable, Sulphurous, lucif’rous, sharpening blur.
Sharpening blur, Don’t orphan this glowing – Don’t let it be solit’ry, Singular-showing, Or flirting idolatry – Awed by the magi, Then gone with the mayfly – With only a lingering tingle of myrrh.
Let us confer, Many’s the symphony Fractured in movements With only a common key Stalling reprovements, Each passage belabours Unhelped by its neighbours – Always ensure that your themes reoccur.
Themes reoccur, It resonates sweetly, This act of creation, Its song builds discreetly Through reiteration, Till harmonies swelling Enrich with each telling – We need them again and again to bestir.
To sharpen the spur, To heighten the senses, And work through the pain, Till knowledge condenses – Then test it again, Obtaining our mission Through raw repetition – We’re always the sum of whatever we were.
I happened upon her by chancery lane, A greenford-eyed angel was riding my train. She stood like a monument, no poplar tart, She’s shoreditch to snaresbrook my hammersmith heart.
Her body’s a temple, all saints can’t compare, So redbridge her lips and so blackwall her hair. Her beauties are out of my gallions reach – They pinner my tongue, which cockfosters my speech.
A wapping-great loughton’s west acton the fool – He’s epping and barking, but she’s morden cool. She’ll ruislip his grasp with her fairlop display, And mudchute him down as she bounds green away.
I see her each mornington crescent alone, Her marble arch skin is like cream leytonstone. This queensway of smiling’s from upney above – I cyprus with wonder and kilburn with love.
Bricks by Carl Andre. It has a longer, poncy name – but let’s face it, it’s just bricks.
The Bland & The Brutal
This macho rejection of beauty as quaint, We bask in the ugly in building and paint – Those worlds of the graceful and subtle all fade, We cannot return back, because we’re afraid.
Uncle Charlie (played by Joseph Cotten) in Shadow of a Doubt
Uncle Charlie, How I Envy You
To never have a camera shoved in your face With accompanied orders to smile and pose, With not a thought for those who lack the grace Or the confidence to happily expose Their gawkiness to this all-stealing eye That no-one but no-one has the right to deny.
And so there persisted those who thought That privacy must be trumped with the utmost ubiquity. How dare their prey not be such a sport, As yet another click strips yet another shred of their dignity.
I am surely so much more Than this awkward lump you proudly snared As you barged upon me, you shutterbugging boor, Who ignored my gentle requests to be spared. I am surely so much else Than this pasty red-eyed frozen mess, Too self-conscious, both elephant and mouse, Who wishes to be looked upon altogether less.
And there used to be those who would claim That every photo would thieve a sliver of their soul – And although the sceptic inside cries shame, A little piece within me is always left feeling less whole.
Uncle Charlie boasted that he had never had his photo taken – I guess he never noticed the film crew following him around.
Oh dear, dear F1, You’re oh so keen to jump the gun. The slightest knock, and up you pop, Just barging past and to the top, And begging to be asked a question, Or to make a cool suggestion – Anything to lend a cyber hand.
Your happiness is my command, And, oh, you’ll never understand, F1, old son, You simply can’t ! I want Escape ! I want F2 ! I’m sorry, son, but get it through your key: If help I need, it won’t be you, you see. It’s never you.
Sensible shoes are black or beige only, Trainers are black, white or red. Sensible shoes are rigid and clompy, Trainers are soft as a bed. Sensible shoes need polish and brushes, Trainers need puddles instead. Sensible shoes have nematode laces, Trainers have tapeworms to thread. Sensible shoes are smooth underneath, Trainers are deep in their tread. Sensible shoes squeeze feet into points, While trainers will let the toes spread.
When I was only one year old, My father really should have disappeared – Just sloped off to the bookies on an everlasting Tuesday afternoon. And all my life I would have told Of how my sainted mother persevered, And how, for all I know or care, he’s god-knows-where And won’t be coming back home soon. But somehow dad could never get it right – He’d bet a pound or two, and down a half, But always make it home at night, And spend his winning on another toy giraffe for me. He hung around when I was two, he hadn’t quit when I was three, At four he was still keeping near – At six, and ten, and seventeen – still here ! Forgetting birthdays till the day before, And even then he wasn’t sure which one it was that year.
He should have been an alcoholic, But he never got the hang of drinking. He always loved to flirt and frolic, Gave the eye to ev’ry barmaid while he nursed his half. But I doubt he ever got beyond the winking, I doubt he wanted sex at all – he did it for a laugh. He’d walk a straight line home, far short of tight, And always home in time to kiss goodnight, His breath with just a hint of hops, but hardly stinking.
My mum would sigh and often chide him, He’d just smile and promise to be good. He rarely did the cooking, but he sometimes did the washing up. I’d wonder how she could abide him, But she did – I never understood. He’d make this face I’d only seen before on Andrex puppies, Whenever he had accident’ly smashed her fav’rite cup. He spent a lot of time laid off, and mum would have to work He’d sometimes pick me up from school, but like as not I’d have to walk, But most of all, he always had to think what he should do – His had no instant instinct for it, Kinda wished he could ignore it, Though he still got on and bore it, kinda saw it through. He never planned to be a father – found himself a dad at twenty-two.
But you know, it seems to me In a thousand thousand universes, This one here is probably the only one in which he stayed. All those other hims are chasing nurses or some three-legg’d jade. I don’t know why he’s diff’rent, but some tiny little diff’rence Has made him just too soft and weak to quit his wife and kid. In all this multiverse immense, His stopping hardly makes much sense, But all in all, I guess I’m glad he did.
Some women are doctors, And some women are dockers, And some women are punk rockers, Fire-fighters, romance-writers, Occupants of bishops’ mitres, Pacifiers, rabble-rousers, Mini-skirted, wearing trousers – Anything a man can do, For good or ill – a woman will, And ev’ry bit as bad or skilful, too.
Some woman are bikers, And some women are bakers, And some women are homemakers, Blond-plaited, bowler-hatted, Rugby-balled and cricket-batted, Fat-catted millionaire, Manning-up to grow a pair – Anything a man can do, For left or right – a woman might, And ev’ry bit as grim or brightly, too.
Rhyming Couplets 