“And he made a molten sea, ten cubits from the one brim to the other…and a line of thirty cubits did compass it round about.“
– 1st Kings 7:23
There’s so many reasons for faulting the Bible, From walking on water to capturing brides. There’s so many reasons, it’s scarcely a libel To call God a fool, and a mean one besides ! There’s so many reasons for calling it tribal, And local and ancient – the worst-of-all guides.
So many bloopers and so many slayings, Just so many errors and terrors astounding – So why do you focus on one of its sayings, By claiming the value of pi is worth hounding ? You won’t get the faithful to doubtings and swayings With petty point-scorings that don’t allow rounding.
1. I burrow through the wicker bin Beside your desk, a-froth therein With pencil shavings, strüdel crumbs, And paper balls of failed sums. I’m rubbing up against your socks, Or sharp’ning claws against your box, Or lis’ning to your strange device That clicks and squeaks like frightened mice.
But I don’t like the vial with the strong, sharp smell And why have you a hammer, and a pivot-rig as well ? You’re planning for some trial – uncertain times ahead – Wearing is this clamour, and I’m feeling quite half-dead.
2. I mean, just what is life , anyway ? I mean, crystals grow and all, don’t they ? And viruses, they can even multiply, And sperm can even swim, and twisters fly And thinking machines – how do they fit in ? And when does life end, and when does it begin ?
But you ain’t thinking ’bout any of this, are you ? You’re thinking I have it and lost it, and both are still true Not in any biological sense, But only in a philosophic pretence. Well, get over yourselves, it’s all down to chance: My existence does not revolve around your ignorance.
3. I am not quantum. There are not two of me. I have not become An equation or postulation or theory, Some waveform waiting to collapse, A merely-possible-perhaps, Or psi-functional mixture of states In decoherence to my many-worlds’ fates.
You think you must see me to know me ? And they say cats are solipsists ! And yet you claim I’m floating free, Where yes and no both co-exist. Don’t flatter yourself – I notice too, But I guess I just don’t matter – You’ve got some nerve ! For only your magical-looking will do ! But remember, I too observe – and I’m watching you.
4. I’m one thing or the other, I’m all this thing or that, And whichever you discover, Is right at where I’m at. Because, whatever else I was, Whatever else I am, God damn ! Without caveat I’m unbreakably all cat !
They promised us of Things To Come: The Future’s oscillating hum, When dreams of Progress are unfurled And pitched to claim this Brave New World.
We always knew it’s coming soon, Those holidays upon the Moon, The robots, ray guns, rocket boots, The purple hair and silver suits.
But look at what infact we get: The wind-farm and the internet. Organic foods, not protein pills, And terrorists, not air-raid drills.
We never got to live like gods In fully-automated pods, We never got to touch the stars In UFOs and flying cars.
There’s no-one chilled in cryo-sleep, There’s no-one dreams electric sheep, There’s no-one swashes laser-swords To saves the Earth from Martian hordes.
We’ve waited, just to find, too late The Future now is out of date, Yet still unripe its promised plums – Alas, Tomorrow never comes.
Suppose I were to travel back a day To when you tossed a dime, And watch in secret as you flip the coin To see if you and helpless fate should join. I, of course, already know the way It came to land that time – If I don’t tell, and you don’t know, Then is your will still free, or just for show ?
And if I travel back a thousand-fold To watch, and watch, and watch. I would, I bet, observe the constant threads, The endless runs of heads, heads, ever heads. So does your ignorance then not withhold Your destiny one notch ? You are a puppet on a script – And so, I think, must I be likewise gripped.
But no ! For we’re all Tempus Domini aboard The Tachyon Express – Speeding sixty-secs-per-minute forth, And always quad-dimensional due-north. For time is just our name for this vast hoard Of causes and effects. Through seas of future we must plough, Just surfing on the ever-later Now.
You slide your shank in slow and smooth, To dock upon the centre-post – And now a gentle twist affords To ease your teeth between my wards. Your bit precise in ev’ry groove, Your diamond-pick a torsion ghost: A skeleton to probe my fob, And whispers through – an inside job.
You push your shaft deep in the plug, And stroke my barrel from within. My tumbler spins, my cams engage, My deadbolts throw and springs assuage. My keyway holds your bittings snug To activate each driver-pin To line the shear as each is shipped – Then enter in – my locks are tripped.
A child is born in dead of winter, Child to bring the summer in – He teases rainbows from the sunshine, Lets enlightenment begin. He brings us universal laws – For as above, then so below. He shows the path that we must follow, Teaches how the heavens go.
Brightly shines his star above In both his eyepiece and his eyes – His clockwork earth perturbs the sun, His motion never dies. He shows us how all things must love – We all attract and all obey. So promises the savant one Who’s born on Christmas Day.
A child is born in dead of winter, Child to set the world alight – He mechanises all our fluids, Magnifies the heavens bright. He stands atop the giants’ shoulders, Calculates the cosmic story – From the leastest fractions upwards, His the powers and the glory.
He wants to save the human genus From the couterfeiter’s haul. Apples are the fruit of learning – Worlds shall rise to meet their fall. He shows us how the warmth between us Never really goes away – Hark the one who keeps us burning, Born on Christmas Day.
Many sources cite Isaac as being born on 25th December 1642, while many others claim it was on 4th January 1643. Both are correct. At the time of his birth, the Julian Calandar was still in use in Britain, but the 10-days-ahead Gregorian had been adopted in continental Europe (and more to the point, by the modern audience reading those dates).
Likewise, the day he died can be shown as variously 20th March 1726, 20th March 1727, or 31st March 1727. So, firstly, during his lifespan the Julian had drifted to 11 days out (which accounts for the 31st March reference). And secondly, the official New Year’s Day in England was 25th March, thus 1726 ran from 25th March to 24th March (four days after he died) – but again, this is often retrospectively adjusted (or sometimes half-adjusted, changing the New Year but not the Calandar)
All-in-all, a curious mix-up over a man obsessed with orbits.
Machines have always given lip. We used to use the rule of thump To make ’em jump-start with a jump, Until their clutches got a grip. 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.
1. Roses are red, And violets are blue… Except to a bee Who can see in UV – Who knew ?
2. Roses are red, And violets are blue – Or so it is said, But I wonder if true ? Perhaps in the future – But for a while yet Most roses are fuschia, And violets are violet.
Lookit all you zombies, living lives like you was thinking – But I know you’re just the puppets to the Codebooks in the sky. Lookit all you statues – yeah, you don’t fool me by blinking – Cos I know you’re really dummies – and the suck is, so am I ! Ev’ry single doll of us is following the Script With its plot for ev’ry atom all controlled in all its jazz – Gotta keep ’em tight in line, you can’t have strays or space-time’s ripped, And then how can the Future come to pass like it already has ? Of course, it’s all that Albert’s fault – Him and his flash equation. Had to open up the vault And loose the tachyon invasion – Had to prove, and quite routine, His theory for the time machine. And whoops, he’s sent our free will sinking. Hello zombie. Goodbye thinking.
Now when it comes to sci-fi, I can take a little licence – Like your artificial gravity – we know all that’s all bunk – And beaming-down and warp-speed – well, the concepts have entice-ence – We all so want to so believe, like any cyberpunk. But daddy of them all, be it phone-box or DeLorean, Is scorching up the past-times when they ain’t so dead and gone. Sticking-up two fingers to the know-it-all historian, And making sure our parents got to meet and get it on. But don’t you see the problem here ? The Future is already there – And all we do must all adhere To make it happen right and square. So ev’ry choice is just a lie, We’re ruled by Codebooks in the sky, We’re patsies with our choices stripped, We’re puppetss to the Master Script.
Lookit all we zombies, living lives like we got lives to live, And not some pre-determined plot to parrot as we plod. Lookit all we robots, got our program and executive, To serve the algorithm of our micro-managed god. Ev’ry single slob of us is following the show, With the final season written long before the pilot aired. But we’re still convinced it’s streaming live, and watch it blow-by-blow, As we’re stuffing-in the popcorn – yet we none of us are spared. Of course, it’s all that Albert’s fault – Unless…old Albert’s wrong instead ! And if infact causality, Just like us zombies, is undead… But how can Time and Space apply Without the Codebooks in the sky ? Yet if the Future ain’t our grey-boss – Goodbye zombie, hello chaos.
Rhyming Couplets 