Twinge Whinge
If it’s true just as they say
That that which does not kill today
Shall only make us stronger yet
Then boy !- for all the bugs I get,
For all the lurgies, all the flus,
The injuries and aches and ooze –
For all of that, I should, I vow,
Be bloody Superman by now !
Free Mulling
“No Free Will” can mean two different things –
The first of these is in our brains
That we’re simply biological robots,
Thinking we’re free but forever in chains.
The second is that the Future exists,
It already exists, so it has to arrive –
And the only way from here to there
Is to give up choice and to let fate drive.
According to boffins, it’s out of our hands,
That we’re all algorithms just floating in space,
And the only uncertainty’s not us, but quantum,
And anyway time is all over the place.
Now I know pressure, and I know predictable,
And I know duality – a body and a soul –
But minds are physical, products of biology,
Not separate from bodies, but under their control.
And yet…And yet…
Honestly ?
I mean, yes, I get what they’re trying hard to say,
But it doesn’t sit with me.
I don’t feel a slave even on the dullest day –
You know, I’m feeling pretty free.
And yes, we could be programed so we never notice anyway,
Or maybe we’re just bluffing.
I mean, we’re self-aware – does that count for nothing ?,
Not that the universe would care.
But when it’s down to tails or heads,
To blues or reds,
Or jazz or blues,
That barely even matters which we choose –
Well…have we still the power to refuse ?
And as for that time thing…what’s there to discuss ?
How did the future even get ahead of us ?
They say it isn’t set,
That we still get to select,
Except, of course, except,
That the causes haven’t happened yet,
But all of the effects are in effect.
But come on, we all know that it’s bollocks !
Of course we all get to make a choice,
We’re not all living in a virtual simulation,
And there is no cosmic script that we must voice,
Now normally I show respect to scientists,
But normally they have to prove their stuff –
So I’ll rely on common sense and take responsibility,
And I’ll be free, at least – or free enough.
Richard Feynman
I heard him say the universe
Is held within a glass of wine –
And yes, it’s true there’s science,
Even at the table when we dine –
The way the light reflects, refracts –
The way the liquid lets it shine –
The glass that’s made from sand-made-clear,
By how its molecules align –
And evolution never sleeps,
To accident’ly sculpt the vine.
So let me raise a toast to Richard
With this universe of mine.
The Valentine Virus
February – season of mists
And sniffles and sneezes and snorts.
The lurgy is lurking, the palsy persists,
That there’s no patent tonic or tincture can thwart.
My fluid-filled senses are under attack so,
And nothing can soothe me from 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 that I’m 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 –
I hope they 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 accept your love undyingly,
When dying is precisely how I feel ?
Giving Cynicism a Bad Name
Gods dammit !, I’ve let myself grow optimistic !
I can’t believe I’ve let myself get hopeful-careless now !
“Cynical and real”, a jaded zeal and nihilistic tantra,
That was long my mantra, was my self-improving vow –
Forever “Cynical and real”, from Shangri-La to Slough.
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 maybe and perhaps and if-I-dare, and worth-a-prayer,
And 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 this town
Because I let my shields down,
And all because I let the bastard Hope get on the loose.
So 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 –
“Cynical and real, must keep it cynical and real.
There’s no repeal.”
And if that’s bleak and bitchy, good !
It’s time I understood that harsh reality’s a cow,
It ain’t some sweet and sad-eyed pup.
So please, Defeat, please shoo the mutt
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 Hope and all his cons,
And fire arrows at his swans, until the dread is drilled-in.
Please drag a plough across my brow,
I must allow more worries and more fears.
So please, to anyone who hears me
Hear me now !
Pray dim my eyes and salt my tears,
And help me chant my vow:
“Cynical and real, keep me cynical and real.”
And all you optimists, forgive me,
For I never meant to sign your deal.
“Mumble, moan, and squeal – always cynical and real.”
Let my dread of life outlive me,
For I never meant to let me feel.
Chant it with me,
Chant it with me,
Never let my let-downs heal.
Cynical and real, beneath the ever-groping thumb –
Keep me coping, keep me numb,
Before all Hope is come.
Starve the Addiction
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.
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 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 !
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.
I am aware that although their are twelve notes in an octave (not counting the repeat of the root-note an octave higher), only seven or so will be used in any given scale – well, except the chromatic scale of course. Yes, that’s it, that’s what I really meant, I wasn’t being ignorant at all…
I’m also aware that the six-kingdoms view of life is probably out of date. But who cares, it’s Christmas !
Virgin Birth
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.
Skritch Skritch
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.
Ah-wub-duh-dree-furr
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.
Rhyming Couplets 