If you can hear this, you are dying…

The day will come
When my breaths are laboured,
When I actu’ly hear myself each rasp.
Till the lungs strike dumb,
And my voice goes wayward,
Rattling-out in a final gasp.
As if to say
“Ah Life, you took my breath away…”

And when I pant, I wolf in oxygen,
Corroding me within,
And breezing down my three-score-ten.
And when I yawn, I practice when I die,
By choking with a grin.
But better not to stifle such a cry –
For sooner to inspire and gulp down life
Than just expire in one long sigh.

So ev’ry breath is one breath less,
And yet how many do I get ?
I couldn’t even start to guess,
But far-too-lots to be a threat.
It’s twenty-thousand breaths-a-day,
But who on Earth is keeping score ?
I’ve wasted sev’ral just to say
I still possess a lifetime’s more.

Neural Plasticity

It’s a terrible thing to admit,
But I have been pondering of late
On the role of microplastics
In our fractious trans-debate.
It feels like a conspiracy I’m giving into, true,
So I could be spouting nonsense and I haven’t got a clue,
And I’m willing to be argued-out with science where it’s due,
And trust me, I don’t wish for this to foster any hate.

It’s a terrible thing to admit,
But what if, what if, there’s something in it ?
Perhaps, just like the plastic, we need to take more care
Before we bin it ?
I rather notice a lack of historical examples, see,
And how it often coincides with the onset of puberty,
And elsewhere how it’s messing with our minds, developmentally –
So I don’t know, see, I don’t know…but think on it a minute…

It’s a terrible thing to admit,
To call our trans-friends as somehow disabled –
No, that’s not right…but affected by stimuli ?
Is that a less-pejorative label ?
And if true, it means our efforts to keep the planet greener
Will prevent the contaminants from changing our demeanour –
The next generation will be less-confused and leaner –
Unless, though…unless I’ve just fallen for a fable…

It’s a terrible thing to admit,
And yes, I hear the words I say,
And yes, people are beautiful,
However we came to be that way.
And yet…and yet…if it’s all true, then oughtn’t we to know,
To better understand it and just how our bodies go ?
For we’re all of us reacting to this world in which we grow,
And for the foreseeable, the plastics are here to stay.

Raspberry Ripple

The whiskers on my chinny-chin-chin
Just taunt me at ev’ry turn –
I’ve practiced shaving since I was a lad,
But I don’t think I’ll ever learn.

So I dread to see the morning mug,
Yet never dare adjourn –
My beards are patchy, rough affairs
That raise looks of concern.

I use my blades too long, I know,
My moneysworth to earn.
Yet new ones only last a week
Before they start to burn.

And so I tug and scrape and mow
In a job I’d gladly spurn,
As I pull my jowls and wattles taut
With a stretch and crane and gurn.

I’ve tried electrics shavers,
Yet for all their motors churn,
My fingers raise striations still
On a chin like a windmill’s quern.

And that was with the hair of youth,
As soft as a newborn fern –
But now it shoots out gnarly thorns,
So straggly, grey, and stern.

Maybe one day, razors with lasers
Will give me the finish I yearn !
Till then, for all the years and swipes,
The stubble will always return.

The title is my name for blood spots on shaving cream.