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, 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 puppets 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 androids, 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. We’re doomed to planned banality… 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.
The time upon a clock is always wrong, For any two will not concur – Some dole their endless stock of seconds long, While others scatter theirs a-blur. So never trust upon a clock: ’Twill gain a tick but lose a tock.
“A senior Iranian cleric says women who wear revealing clothing and behave promiscuously are to blame for earthquakes.”
– Geology Now
It only takes an ankle, Or the merest hint of wrist, And oh, calamities abound ! These wenches shock the very ground ! The seething earth they rankle With each rendezvous and tryst. It only takes a look or pout To make the boiling magma spout.
The History of an Industrial Revolution, Located in a Parallel Universe
There was a time before the steam, The world was truly manned – Each ditch was dug and plough was drug By animal or hand – And all the light to see by came From tallow or the sun. So lives would trudge on just the same, Each short and brutal run. There was a time before the steam, The only help was wind or stream – So up we moved to brook or hill, Forever lashed to nature’s will – We’d tap the earth to drive our mill. A little better, maybe – but we’d only just begun.
There was a time before the steam, The world was short and slow. Our only fuel was ox or mule, Or when the wind might blow. And all the warmth in winter came From hearths of wood or peat, With forests lost to make a flame And give a little heat. There was a time before the steam, Before the pitch-black golden seam, When all the energy not hooved Could not be bottled, bred or moved. Our lives could only be improved By pilgrimage to power on our thousand weary feet.
There was a time before the steam, The world was harshly ranged – The days were long, yet swiftly gone, And nothing ever changed. But then came coal – the good earth’s soul, The black and frozen fire – And finally we took control, And built our chimneys higher. There was a time before the steam, But that was then – before the gleam Of pistons, valves and proud machines Whose vapour-thrust provides the means For endless and precise routines – To serve our ev’ry labour and to never miss or tire.
There was a time before the steam, To which we dread return – But once the coke is up in smoke, Well, what then will we burn ? We’ve still got wind and rivers, sure, But only local clout – And charcoal gobbles trees the more, Till none are left to sprout. To where there’s folk about. Will there be times beyond the steam, A flywheel to prolong the dream ? If only we can tame the spark – The lightning bolt, the static arc – And store it, then release its bark ! Or else we face an Age of Dark, when all the lights go out.
Rhyming Couplets 