People are funny with mirrors, We see in them things that were never reflected. We peer into glasses in gloomy old houses, And swear that the ghosts of the vain are detected – Sort of like negative-vampires, Who can only be seen in their opposite form, As a shadow that moves on the edge of our sight When the candlelight blinks in the empty old dorm. We whisper into the speculum, And fancy we glimpse at the face of another From out of the silvery clouds in the tarnish – A movement, a flicker, our killer, our lover. We treat them as if they were watching, To open a portal to trap the unwary. But deep down we know that they only reflect us – Perhaps that’s precisely what makes them so scary…
Do you feel the cold nip ?, Do you feel the dark creep ?, Do you feel your chest grip, And lungs rasp, and heart leap ? Whatever else is in this dark, You think, It’s not alone out here – For it must share this lonely park With both you and your fear. You hear that ? Hark… Don’t blink, Don’t make the blood rush through your ear. Ba-dump, ba-dump, Your throat a lump, Your calm but an veneer. Now all your senses are abuzz, To ev’ry twitch and sigh – You only feel alive because You’re too afraid to die.
Do you bite your numb lips ?, Do you count each heart thump ?, Do your prickled fingertips Clench fast each time your teeth jump ? Whatever else is in your mind, You think, It’s not alone in there – For it must stalk your misaligned And overactive lair. Don’t look behind, Just blink, Before your nerves fly ev’rywhere. Ba-dump, ba-dump, Your tremors pump, Your heart recites a prayer. And yet, be thankful when it does, For this, at least, is real – You only feel afraid because You’re still alive to feel.
The Buddhists believe in the hungry ghosts, Who need to feed – So paper models of modern life are burned, To sate their greed. Good to know that the heavenly hosts Are capitalists, Hording the hell-money they never earned In their undead fists.
Ev’ry cherub has a good side, Has a cute and blond-curled nonesuch, Muted-trumpet, harp-soft-touch. But deep within, they surely hide A grinning, sharp-horned, prong-tailed whiplash, Bass-drum-beating, cymbal crash.
The truth is, in ev’ry Gabriel, A Lucifer is also present – Ready, should things get unpleasant… But likewise, in the darkest Hell, In ev’ry Beelzebub in town, A Michael waits to calm things down.
Musical AI version generated by Suno.com – find more of them over here.
I’m far too smart to believe in magic, But what the heck have you done to me ? I know what’s what in law and physics, But why can’t my mind just let you be ? I used to scoff at the thought of Hell, Now I’m shaking and sweating under your spell – I’m far too smart to believe in magic, But your bewitching is plain to see.
I feel your beauty cast its glamour, A wave of the hand, and you lead me on. I can’t think straight through all this clamour, I’m a helpless mark for your brazen con. But worst of all, it’s magic by stealth – I’ve set my own spell, and upon myself. I let your beauty cast its glamour And all of my common sense is gone.
One day, I’ll be dead as a parrot, I’ll feed the worms, I’ll buy the farm – With neurons in my brain at peace, As ev’rything I am shall cease. One day – in my lonely garret, Or else within my lovers’ arms – But either way, when all is said, They’ll tuck me in my final bed, One day – Aye, but not this day, For this is the Day of the Dead !
So grab your tridents, grab your horns, Your furry paws and crowns of thorns, Tonight, there’s no-one weeps or mourns, Unless it’s out of fright ! For this is a time to be alive, In overdrive, till our veins run red – There’s just no time to die tonight, There’s a long long way to go before we’re dead. At this time of year, When entropy is near – let’s keep it light, And laugh at our inescapable fate instead.
One day, I’ll be nothing but a past tense – And that fact lurks at the back of my mind. Ev’ry road will lead me to the grave, With no prayer to pray and no soul to save. It all makes simple, terrifying sense – So I’ve learned to leave such thoughts behind. For either way, come joy or dread, They’ll close my eyes and shroud my head. One day – But not now, I say ! For this is the Day of the Dead.
So grab your accents, grab your cloaks, Let’s haunt this technicolour hoax ! We’re just your av’rage mortal folks Who laugh in the face of blight. For this is a time to be alive, Let’s joke and jive wherever we tread – Who cares if we must die some night, Let’s worry about dying once we’re dead. At this time of year, When existential fear is at its height – Let’s laugh in the face of the mirthless void instead.
Halloween falls as the clocks fall back, When once more twelve is the mid of the night – The dark comes early, and properly black, For who’s afraid when the twilight’s bright ? Gloom and confusion become our friends To let the pumpkins glow so clear. Halloween falls when Summertime ends, When once more Winter’s the heart of the year.
So once again the world continues its Great War cosplay of tinkering with the time to appease a couple of farmers and the zombie lurch of tradition.
The Grim Reaper by Thomas Roth, showing a sculpture by August Schmiemann.
Appointments in Samarra
I meet the very best of men, too late, At their very end, I meet the kindest women, small and great, As they unblend. I also meet the very worst, But even they become un-cursed – I find a goodness in them all, My temporary friends.
I couldn’t say what sends them on their way – Biology or fate – Who knows what dividends await ? I’ve lost track of the holy text. I only get to spend a minute or two, To take them by the hand, And help them pass on through To whatever land shall be their next.
I meet the very best of folk, And always just in time, For one last breath, for one more joke, Before they quit their prime. I know not why it has to be, Their sand runs out so fast – But what an honour it is for me To meet with you at last.
The title is a nod to William Maugham’s 1933 play Sheppey which, besides from being a rare celebration of working class life in pre-war Britain, also popularied an old Arabian story. It’s so well told that it’s a shame to have to point out the absolutely zombified worldof Predestinationit implies.
Sheppeyhas always interested me for making me aware of British plays that celebrate working class life long before John Osborne’s Look Back in Anger. I’ve since also dicovered Howard Brighouse’s Hobson’s Choice(1915), Githa Sowerby’s Rutherford & Son, and Stanley Houghton’s Hindle Wakes(both 1912). The latter is particularly fascinating for showing a young woman who spends a dirty weekend with the boss’s son, refuses to marry him, and shows no remorse and receives no come-uppance. I wonder if its being set in the North helped it slip past the Lord Chamberlain ?
The Wiccans are newer than Mormons, Are older than Jedis, As ancient as Hubbard and Xenu. For all that they claim to be Pagans, They’re Beatniks and Hippies, And Goths in a green hue.
And that’s all fine, They’re free to be free – With crystals and Maypoles and love-spells galore. But there’s a good reason They call it all New Age – There never were witches at Salem, for sure !
So write your magick with a K, And write your faerie with an E, And dance around Stonehenge all day – But you ain’t fooling me.
These magpies of Masons and folklore Make far more sense As their Twentieth-Century selves. The Wiccans belong with the Martians, From skiffle to hemp-heads – Suburbanite dreamers and nuclear elves.
Rhyming Couplets 