Candirus – do they ? No. They don’t. Firstly they can’t, And second, they won’t. They parasite gills – Not penises, ever. They’d suffocate up there – That wouldn’t be clever.
They don’t swim up pee-streams (Even if laminar), Cos fluid dynamics Need far too much stamina. They haven’t a tool To wedge your tool wide, Nor have they the strength To push-up inside.
So next time you’re spreading A rumour or two That deep down you desp’rately Want to be true, When pissing on truth Cos it pleases your gut – Recall the candirus And keep your hole shut.
The trouble with your aliens Is in their heads and mouths and eyes – It’s that they even have these things On Barnard’s Star and Saturn’s rings. ‘Convergent evolution’ can’t explain Your humans in disguise – It takes much more to say ‘out there’ Than silver skin and purple hair.
Just look at what we have on Earth – Octopuses, jellyfishes – These look far more alien Than a pointy-eared mammalian. But we buy into your blatant lies (In part against our better-wishes), As the only show in town, To get our fix of upside-down.
I know, I know, you still need human actors Who can play them – And we, the audience, must read Emotions in each xeno-breed. But honestly, such life should be As branches from a foreign stem – So vastly diff’rent body-planned, So freshly-weird and oddly-grand.
So think beyond the tooth and arm, The exo-shell and tentacle ! The trap your aliens befall – They just ain’t alien at all. For why would humans stride the stars If space is all identical ? Let’s have some art and CGI That let imaginations fly !
Viruses are feeble, really – Just can’t hope to make it In this dangerous Outside – There they are, alone and naked, Lucky to survive a day or two, Before they’re on the slide – There’s nothing they can do, and there’s nowhere they can hide. The trouble is, they’ve got no drive, They’re just too small. Chances are, they’ve died Before we even can decide If they ever were alive at all.
A little soap will crack them open, Ultra vi’let shakes them to their core – Or else they get digested by a passing virivore – (High in protein, high in fat, What germ could ask for more ?) And if not that, Then while they’re out there, waiting to congeal, They cannot reproduce and cannot heal. So keep them on the Outside, that’s the deal – Until they all go splat.
1. Eeny meeny, counted Queenie, Fingers one two three and four – A fish alive and thumb makes five, And on the other hand there’s more. So rub-a-dub and squeeze and scrub, And this little piggie wee wee wee Index middle ring and little, Pinkie perky owe-you-tee.
2. Queenie went to market To buy a bar of soap She went to Deal and Margate, And Cape Town on the Hope, But a laundry-maid from Washington Had bought up ev’ry crate, So Queenie had to wash with none But ashes from the grate.
3. Queenie on her lone and only, All her friends are all indoors – They’re down with spots and chicken pox, And tummy-aches and sores. Queenie finds the streets are empty, Like the swings and slides and stores – They cannot come and play today, They’ve all been through the wars.
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 !
“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.
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.
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 ?
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.
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.
Rhyming Couplets 