Paul is dead, man. Miss him, miss him, miss him ! So I call out to the devil, and offer him my bed – I tell him “Sleep with me, I’m not too young; But bring my lover back, put his words into my head.” Satan he hears me, he has me believe: “Just play all your albums, and listen where they’re slurred.” He says “It’s fun to smoke marijuana, It changes all music and the way you hear the words.” So here’s to my sweet Satan – I hear, against the flow, hidden in the track The voice of Paul. Turn me on, dead man. He speaks to me once more when I play the records back.
The odd-numbered lines are examples of backtracks, or backwards-masking, that people with more time and less care for scratches have found hidden in their favourite albums.
Details from St Sebastian Altarpiece by Francesco Botticini
Just Another Face in the Choir
She rises to the golden glow From ev’ry cloud beneath her feet, And curls her hair in ringlets so, In waves of strawb’ry, loose yet neat. She pins each blossom into place To form a halo round her tress, And adds a paleness to her face, And dons her fine and pleated dress. She plucks her harp and tunes its strings, And warms her voice to sweetermost. And so, with flexed and polished wings, She clocks-on to rejoins the host.
This poem was written in response to the painting shown above (sorry she’s so small).
Cornubia by John Miller. The fine detail is somewhat lost here, but every church (maybe just the mediaeval ones ?) has a shaft of light falling on it – you can just make out the larger shaft picking out Truro Cathedral (which also houses the painting). Yes, I know the cathedral is Victorian, but it reuses some of the fabric of Truro parish church.
The Land of the Saints
They’re pious in Cornwall, or proud, or just quaint, Sennan and Bryvyth, Morwetha and Cleer They name half their villages after a saint – Piran and Tudy, Winwillo, Gwinear Not many Marys or Peters or Pauls, Nevet and Probus, Mabena and Breock For ev’ry Saint Helen’s we find a Saint Mawes. Leven and Cuby, Wennapa and Feock Our corp‘or‘ate saints have been roundly withstood, Sithney and Breward, Lalluwy and Ruan For theirs are so local, old Cornish done good. Mylor and Sancreed, Illogan and Mewan
I’m sure I’m getting the emphasis wrong on some of these names, but that’s the beauty of English – anything goes, and my mispronunciation is just as valid as yours, especially when you definitely have never heard of these names before. And yes, they’re Cornish, not English, but consider them now Anglisised. And yes, I did just spell Anglisised with two esses – deal with it.
“…all other flying creeping things, which have four feet, shall be an abomination unto you.”
– Leviticus, chapter 11, verse 23
Chow down on the damselflies, Munch upon their crop – Bite into their compound eyes Until you feel them pop. Scoff on moths and feast on ’wigs, Or ’skaters, ’skeeters, whirligigs – And aphids served up by the dish With ladybirds and silverfish.
Count the legs to know the score. If six apiece, our bugs are pure.
Chomp upon the wasp when ripe And pluck each silky wing, Chew upon its barley-stripe And suck its juicy sting. Scarabs sate the palate well, Just don’t forget to crack the shell – While maggots taste so sweet and young, When slowly melting on the tongue.
Count each foot and thigh and shin – When legs are six, we never sin.
But locusts and crickets All look like they’ve rickets With bandy gert hindlegs for springing around. And mantids, you’re saying Have forelimbs for praying. But all use all six when they creep on the ground. And fleas, if you please, walk the hexa-gait too – (At least, in the circus they do.)
So count each leg, each gnat and bee – For six is fit anatomy !
*****
But feast not on the mutants, The foul four-leggèd mutants ! Such creeping fowls thou shalt not eat, With legs above their feet.
Beware the peacock butterfly ! With four leg-legs and foreleg combs. Beware the mantidfly, they cry ! And drive these devils from our homes.
Then feast not on the spine that’s rimmed by six, With shoulders double-limbed. So count the struts in which they’re clad – Six legs good, four legs bad.
And I heard of some bats in New Zealand Who go on all-fours on the floor Their wings get tucked up, and each free hand Is def’nit’ly walked on, for sure !
So shout it out to congregations – None shall taste abominations ! Heresies thou shalt not eat With legs above their feet.
So gather, gather for the feast Of insects, great and small. They’re pure and kosher, ev’ry beast – Six-leggèd, one and all !
I have seen footage of a mantidfly use it’s forelimbs to help pull itself up a wall, but on the flat at least they seem to keep them folded up. The unrelated praying mantis does similar, but I think may use it’s forelimbs for locomotion a bit more often. But the real champions are the brush-footed butterlies (peacocks, monarchs, tortoiseshells, red admirals) whose front ‘legs’ are far too short for standing on. Probably best not to eat them, just in case…
As for birds, they use their forelimbs for flying, or swimming (penguins), or display and balance (ostriches), but never for weight-bearing locomotion. The only partial exception are the hoatzin and the unrelated turacos whose chicks have claws on their wings which they use to climb (but not walk), and which are lost as they fledge. The pterosaors were a different matter, with azhdarchids in particular showing a preference to spend longer on the ground scampering around on all-fours, but of course they hadn’t survived Noah’s Ark…
Oh, and the narrator seems to have forgotten that bats are specifically forbidden in Leviticus 11:19, so avoiding New Zealand bats in favour of flying foxes is no help. Although…did ‘bat’ really mean bat ? I’ve pondered on that over here.
Judas in paintings is often the one Who’s sporting the bright carrot hair. What does this signify, why was this done ? For redheaded Jews were exception’ly rare. Maybe he dyed it with henna, of course, For most nat’ral gingers were Celtic or Norse, So who were the genealogical source Of Judas Iscariotson ?
Edom has nothing to do with Judas, being the brother of Isaac in Genesis, but his name means ‘red’ in Hebrew.
How will love fare on a far, strange planet ? Something tells me, just fine. Astronauts are after all as human as the rest, On those long and lonely voyages to Sigma Ceti Nine. It really doesn’t matter how Control attempts to plan it – Some eventualities are harder to decline, And improvised solutions are unlikely to be guessed Until that fateful moment when our instincts come online.
Then to the fore comes ambiguity, When foreign incongruity’s the only game in town. But, when it comes to promiscuity, Then human ingenuity will never let us down.
We are the pioneers Across the galaxy we plumb We are the copuleers We boldly go and boldly come
So Human-Alien exchanges probe To grasp a firmer bond – Exploring green and grey and blond, Until enquiring ends combine In intimate communion. We’ll scout each sucker, fin and lobe, And softly test how they respond To fingers from the great beyond – And arms and tentacles entwine In interstellar union.
I have heard it suggested that humans would be disgusted by anything even-slightly non-human. After all, for all we snigger at bestiality, it’s a very rare proclivity. And just look at our closest neighbours, the chimps – when the females are in heat, their genitals swell up to advertise the fact, though good luck getting any human gentlemen callers with that trick !
So if we’re six million years too distant for Pan-spermia, what hope have we of getting horny for alien horns ? Well, I think it’s a case of uncanny valley and not marrying cousins. After all, there’s way more octopus porn than monkey business.
Blaise Pascal once placed a Bet, And for a Stake he risked his Soul: “If of Gods there’s Nothing yet, Then all our Faith can’t fill the Hole – But then, since no God will Notice, For no God then Is at all, So our Prayers unto Abyss Have done no Harm nor broke no Law.
But, should I now choose Desisting, Claiming Heavens are Unmanned – And, should now our Lord be lis’ning, So shall He declare me Damned. Therefore, weighing Odds and Chances, Losses made and Gains received, Wager wise where Luck enhances: ’Tis far Safer we Believed.”
Roll up ! Roll up ! The Tote is open, Honest Blaise the Bookie always gives the Smartest Odds. And ev’ry Sharp and Rookie can apply His Patent Foolproof System to the Big Game in the Sky. Poker-Face Pascal knows the Score, He’s Croupier to the Heavenly Draw – He’s got the Inside Track on Hoping, He’s the Turf Accountant to the Gods.
Alas, Blaise, your God is not The Only Game to play in Town, A thousand other Evens Lots Can yet be Laid when eyes are Down. Such Longshots aren’t worth a Flutter, Spin the Wheel and watch the Ball, And pray it Lands within your Gutter – Better not to bet at All.
So, whichever Gods are Winners, Rank us Luckless all the same: As Heretics and Bankrupt Sinners – Even those not in the Game. And if I Bust, I’m Damned if they Shall claim the only Stake I’ve got. But Stick or Twist, collect or Pay, Let’s ante-up the Mortal Pot.
Roll up ! Roll up ! The Gods are waiting Three Prayers for a Fiver, and the Fate Tombolas roll ! Now ev’ry Saint and Skiver gets to play With Aces high and Jokers wild, and Tabs till Judgment Day. Brokerman Blaisey knows the bid, With Afterlife Shares just seven-a-quid: He has the Dope and Gen and Rating, He’s the Underwriter to the Soul.
detail from Portrait of the Prophet Muhammad riding the Buraq, 1820-30 Indian
Sunnis & Cartoonies
Tell your children, tell your spouse, Use a biro, use a mouse, Ev’rybody in the house – Doodle-up Mohammed ! Take a minute, take a day, When at your lunch or at your play, Ev’rybody, sketch away ! Scribble-down Mohammed ! Draw his eyes and draw his nose Draw his fingers, draw his toes What’s he look like ? No-one knows ! Draw, you all, Mohammed !
Draw him as an diplomat, Draw him as a Knicks fan, Draw him as an acrobat, Draw him as a stick-man, Draw him seemly, draw him sleazy, Draw him dreamy, draw him cheesy, Draw him any way you pleasy Draw your pen but not your blade. Draw to show our common sense Or draw to show we take offence Or draw to show they try to censor. Draw to show we’re not afraid.
Tell the Arabs, tell the Brits, Use your pencils, use your wits, Ev’rybody, Bics not blitz ! Don’t let’s awe him, let’s all draw him ! Ev’ry colleague, guest and mate, Join the party, bring debate. Ev’rybody – love not hate ! Come, let’s draw Mohammed !
We all know what will happen If these ravens quit the Tower – Strange to think these scavengers Should hold such royal power – To keep the crown from toppling, They are crippled in one wing, To fawn and clown for punters, (All still peasants of the king.)
But you should be flying, Raven, You should have flown, For what cares a raven for propping-up thrones ? Be mightier, Raven, than magpie or rook – For the higher you fly, so the smaller we look.
We all know what will happen If these ravens quit the Tower – So much like us, they’re savaged Just to keep the nobs in power. They’re victim of Victorians, They’re prisoners to lore – If only they could bring them down, And goad them “Nevermore !”
For you should be soaring, Raven, You should be gone, For what cares a raven for owners of swans ? Be mighty, oh Raven, and help us stand tall – For the higher you fly, so the further they fall.
The whole myth only started in Victorian times, and to this day these magnificaent birds are denied their natural instinct to fly for the sake of tourist pounds.
And thus the Lord saith until Satan “Testest thou my great creation, Tempt and trick and lead astray: The Righteous shall refuse to play, And know thy works and block thy game, And firm upon the path remain.”
The Devil thought and mused awhile, Then broke into demonic smile, And so with cunning, wrote a tome Forged deep within his hellish home With hints and winks and clues abound To show itself corrupt, unsound.
For here was found a petty god Who knew no mercy, spared no rod, But set such rules upon His flock Which He Himself would break and mock, And kill His own as took His fancy – Proud and jealous tyrant, He.
Alas, Old Nick does now succeed Too well, as heretics still bleed, And signs are begged from out the skies, As morals spring derived from lies – The Faithful, though, shall call absurd This book, and not believe a word.
Rhyming Couplets 