February – season of mists
And sniffles and sneezes and snorts.
The lurgy is lurking, the palsy persists,
That no patent tonic or tincture can thwart.
My fluid-filled senses are under attack so,
And nothing can soothe me by Pfizer or Glaxo.
Instead I must mop them with Cussons and Lever –
The sweats and the shakes and the chills and the fever.
Is it just because my hands are swollen
That my nat’ral poise is stolen ?
Clumsy fingers uncontrolling,
Rolling like they’re locked in boxing gloves.
Is it just the syrup I am spooning
That sets my giddy head to swooning ?
Drifting in and out of tuning,
Mooning like I’m some young thing in love.
Either way, the outlook’s flaky –
Something’s come and left me shaky.
How am I to stem this phlegm cocooning me,
That’s strewn in tubes below and pipes above ?
Unless…
Unless it is you who is making me bluesy,
Unless it is you who is laying me low,
Weary and woozy and bleary and boozy
I hate to be choosy, but say it ain’t so !
A cold front is passing, a hard sleet is falling,
But these will blow over once spring comes a-calling…
Yet if I’m infected by what I suspect –
Then there’s no cure can save me, and no ward protect.
Is it just because my eyes are streaming
That the world looks like I’m dreaming ?
Hazy psychedelic gleaming,
Seeming strangely vivid yet unreal.
Or is it my subconscious that I’m spying ?
All the drugs my brain’s supplying
Must have set my nerves to frying,
Flying off and sleeping at the wheel.
Either way, the outlook’s gloomy –
Something’s come and left me rheumy.
How can I declare my love undyingly,
When dying is precisely how I feel ?
Gods dammit !, I’ve let myself grow optimistic !
I can’t believe I’ve let myself get hopeful-careless now !
“Cynical and real”, the jaded zeal of nihilistic tantra,
That was long my mantra, was my self-improving vow –
Expect the worst – the worst exists – be never solipsistic –
I’m not alone, alas ! – there’s people ev’ry-bloody-where,
Who seem to think their mission is to try and make me care. But hey, I seem to say, chuck that away for ‘anyhow’,
For grasping at what-ifs and maybes, any passing stray statistic,
Gleaning gosh and go-for-it from what-about and wow.
Oh, this is gonna hurt, I know,
Oh, this is gonna crush me in the vice of lessons learned.
But truly I deserve this blow,
Because the flame of hope must feed on hope,
Must burn up hope, till hope is burned.
I should, I do, know better than to think that this old rope
At which I grope, is yet a lifeline, not a noose.
Ah, what’s the use…
However much I tell myself
That hopefulness is bad for health
My under-mind is getting drunk on jubilation juice.
Defeat is gonna flood the town
Because I let my shields down,
And all because I let the bastard hope get on the loose.
Come and claim me, he-who-wins,
Come poke my eyes and kick my shins,
My inner-voice needs dowsing and my spirit’s due a sluice.
But still…but still I hear its whisper, even now –
I hear it over ev’ry chanting of my vow –
So please, Defeat, please come and shut the damn thing up !
Please be the poison in the buttercup,
The fungus in the bough.
Please, Defeat, for once, for all,
Please stop me dreaming quite so tall –
I cannot take another fall,
Another draining of my tao.
A swift one-two into the gut
Should hobble me my cocky strut
And fill my saccharine with gall.
Quick ! I feel another wave of optimism building –
But lilies aren’t for gilding,
They’re for bearers of the pall.
Quick ! Construct a wall to keep my pessimism filled in –
I pray for mental doors of bronze
To shut out Wish and all his cons,
And fire arrows at his swans, until the dread is drilled-in.
Don’t drag a plough across my brow,
I can’t allow these worries and these fears.
So please, to anyone who hears me
Hear me now !
Pray dim my eyes and salt my tears,
And chant my vow:
“Cynical and real.”
“Cynical and real.”
All you optimists, forgive me,
For I never meant to sign your deal.
“Cynical and real.”
“Cynical and real.”
Let my doubtfulness outlive me,
For I never meant to let me feel.
Chant it with me,
Chant it with me,
Never let my let-downs heal.
And I’m never gonna smoke again –
I’m gonna be a Mormon, or a rescued beagle,
No more roll-ups, as high as an eagle,
Till the wheezes, the hacks and the rasps have taken the hint –
I’m gonna survive on placebo patches and mints,
Till I can’t stand the pain.
And I’m never gonna drink again –
I’m gonna be Methodist, or a prude,
Resisting the caffeinated and brewed,
Till the migraines, the slurs and the shakes have loosened the strap –
I’m gonna survive on organic smoothies and tap,
Till I can’t stand the pain.
And I’m never gonna eat again –
I’m gonna be a model, or maybe a monk,
Working out the body and cutting out the junk,
Till the ounces, the pound and the stones have fallen away –
I’m gonna survive on wholemeal carrots and hay,
Till I can’t stand the pain.
Sketch of the bas relief on the Altar of Domitius, showing different stages of a census (the original is one long strip, here split in two. Judging from the armour, it likely dates from just before the Marian Reforms of 9894 HE.
sketch
The Counting Carol
[parts in italics are sung by all.]
The Romans go from house to house, Just counting – The Romans go from house to house
To count each man and dog and mouse,
And grub and flea and bug and louse, In city, plain and mountain. And when they knock upon our door
To tally up our stock and store,
Then what shall be our docket score ?
But hark, [knock knock]
But hark, [knock knock]
But hark, I hear them knocking…
I count twelve notes that make a scale. So one last time, let us regale ! Twelve are the jurors, twelve are the scribes,
Twelve are the inches and twelve are the tribes, And after a twelvemonth’s high society, Then twelve are the steps to dry sobriety.
Eleven players form a team, Be they ladies, be they gents.
Ten is the base of our number sense, Where digits get a neighbour.
Nine are the months of labour, From conception through to birth.
Eight the planets, like the Earth, Orbiting the Sun we are.
Seven diff’rent grades of star – Oh be a fine girl, kiss me ![/Oh be a fineguy, kiss me !]
Six the kingdoms of life we see – Do kings play chess on fine green silk ?
Five is the hour we harvest the milk, Five, five per day to thrive ! Five are my fingers, five are my toes,
Five is the starfish and five is the rose. A hedgerow rose ? Well, I suppose.
There’s always five on one of those. Five are the petals and the leaves she grows, Attracting the bees and attracting the nose.
Four are the forces, I propose, Forces nature shall have it be – Electromagnetic and gravity,
And the strong and the weak attraction.
Three each science branch or faction – Bio, chemo and physio learning. Three the dimensions through which we’re turning,
And three the hands on my watch tell time.
Two is the first and smallest prime,
Two is the first of the even-kind. Two, oh two, you’re one behind, You’re second-best at bestest.
And then came one, and so we rest –
We’ve counted each and ev’ry guest. For one is one, the last and first, The very best, the very worst. For one is one, is most perverse – The all-enclosing universe.
This is intended to be a cumulitive carol, like Green Grow The Rushes, Oh or that other one whose name I can’t recall. It starts from 1 and works its way upto 12, with cut-down verses to speed things along (they’re only sung in full when they’re introduced and on the final time. Thus the penultimate verse is like this:
The Romans go from house to house, Just counting – But hark, [knock knock]
But hark, [knock knock]
But hark, I hear them knocking…
Eleven players form a team, Be they ladies, be they gents.
Ten is the base of our number sense, Where digits get a neighbour.
Nine are the months of labour, From conception through to birth.
Eight the planets, like the Earth, Orbiting the Sun we are.
Seven diff’rent grades of star – Oh be a fine girl, kiss me ! [/Oh be a fine guy, kiss me !]
Six the kingdoms of life we see – Do kings play chess on fine green silk ?
Five is the hour we harvest the milk, Five, five per day to thrive !
Four are the forces, I propose, With the strong and the weak attraction.
Three each science branch or faction, And three the hands on my watch tell time.
Two is the first and smallest prime, Two is the first of the even-kind.
And then came one, and so we rest – We’ve counted each and ev’ry guest.
Mary, Mary,
Little fairy,
Like those Grecian girls of old:
The bull and swan have entered in,
The golden rain has soaked your skin,
So what’s inside,
Mary Bride,
And were you told ?
Like the girls and the Nephelim did when they kiss
In the book of the partheno-Genesis,
So a tale this big is too big to disbelieve,
And the giants in this world are conceived
By women who are bold.
Mary, Mary,
Extr’ordinary
How does your foetus grow on its own ?
Maybe a haploid, unfertilised seed,
That’s only half a human, indeed !
So are you sure,
Mary Pure,
Just what you’ve grown ?
But it has been shown in the lizard and the aphid,
And a miracle Messiah has been prophesised since David,
In a tale so big it’s too big to be denied –
So the drag-king of the Jews must be supplied
Through your daughter – through your clone.
If depression is a black dog,
Then I reckon that
Paranoia is a grey rat:
Small and sulking,
Squeaking, skulking –
Always watching,
Always gnawing,
Never passioned,
Never thawing.
Yes, that’s about the sum:
A greyed-out rat who always looks askance –
A rat who feasts on ev’ry crumb,
And looks for plots in ev’ry chance.
A rat who thinks the world must think
About his each and ev’ry thought –
A rat who sniffs at ev’ry chink,
And always find the intrigues sought.
He pads in silently, and whispers how
The world conspires to bring his doom,
The righteous woes that plague him now,
His whiskers twitching in the gloom.
Then scuttles off to disavow,
And seep his piss across the room.
This is the time of the viral star:
Of the unintended baritones,
Of sudden blasts on nose trombones,
And the throaty roar of bass catarrh !
The husky whisper strains with grief
To the beat of mints against the teeth.
