Christmas is done with, The New Year is come, The feasting is over, The outlook is glum, Our work is resumed And the weather is cold, So uproot the glitter And out with the old.
They’re sprouting on pavements And swarming on greens, They loiter on verges Like unruly teens, They cluster round dustbins And litter our lanes – Straggly and soggy, These sorry remains.
They served us so proudly A fortnight ago, They warmed up the winter And gave us a glow. But now they are cast out With scant a goodbye – Destitute, homeless, And waiting to die.
The council is working To round up the strays And shred them to chippings For Agas to blaze, Or sit beneath see-saws, Or borders to don. By Twelve Night they’re coming, By Burns Night, they’re gone.
Royal Ontario Museum Eastern Wing by Alfred Chapman & James Oxley, alas infected by a wanger parasite
Parable of Architecture
Imagine that you’re sat at home, Lis’ning to some Bach, let’s say – When thudding through the party wall Comes Iron Maiden, ev’ry day. Now perhaps you rather like To mosh from time to time – But not at home – for home is Bach: Subtle, delicate, sublime. You’re not a snob, there’s room for both, Though Eddie’s really out of place At festivals of lilting strings – They ain’t the stage to show his face. And Glastonbury’s Pyramid Is likewise not the perfect gig For chamber-orchestra-quartets To strut their stuff and make it big. But ah, you say, There’s shuffle-play: A random stream shall come our way. But if you try another’s Pod, I bet you find their choices odd.
But now imagine, ev’ry day, Their music blares until it bleeds – They always crank it to eleven, Cos that’s what our music needs. And all your pastiche must be crushed, For that is old and we are New – We are the only tune allowed, Cos all your heathen hymns are through. But long before they moved next door There used to live the sweetest song – It’s gone forever, now, that air – Alas, the future came along. They took the song and stripped it bare, Then slowed it down into the grave – They tore its notes out, cleared its score, To build their tune upon its stave. But ah, you say, That’s what we pay To progress through to come-what may. But I say we can play them both If we just learn some civil growth.
Why do shadows lurk and clump Wherever there’s a lack of light ? Why do hearts and footsteps thump When too much nothing gives us fright ? So why do throats grow sharp and taut, And fingers white, and faces pale ? And why does breath get loud and short, And turn into a vapour trail ?
I know, I know, it’s only night When only nerves attack… Yet what is watching out of sight, And turning shadows black ?
Who’s that walking where I’m walking, Pacing half a pace behind ? Who’s that lis’ning when I’m talking, Twitching back the mental blind ? What’s this tongue that’s speaking tongues ? Who’s beating heartbeats next to mine ? Who is that breathing in my lungs, And shivering upon my spine ?
I know, I know, I’m overwrought, From which my phantoms stem… But who is thinking all my thoughts, And who is hearing them ?
The History of an Industrial Revolution, Located in a Parallel Universe
There was a time before the steam, The world was truly manned – Each ditch was dug and plough was drug By animal or hand – And all the light to see by came From tallow or the sun. So lives would trudge on just the same, Each short and brutal run. There was a time before the steam, The only help was wind or stream – So up we moved to brook or hill, Forever lashed to nature’s will – We’d tap the earth to drive our mill. A little better, maybe – but we’d only just begun.
There was a time before the steam, The world was short and slow. Our only fuel was ox or mule, Or when the wind might blow. And all the warmth in winter came From hearths of wood or peat, With forests lost to make a flame And give a little heat. There was a time before the steam, Before the pitch-black golden seam, When all the energy not hooved Could not be bottled, bred or moved. Our lives could only be improved By pilgrimage to power on our thousand weary feet.
There was a time before the steam, The world was harshly ranged – The days were long, yet swiftly gone, And nothing ever changed. But then came coal – the good earth’s soul, The black and frozen fire – And finally we took control, And built our chimneys higher. There was a time before the steam, But that was then – before the gleam Of pistons, valves and proud machines Whose vapour-thrust provides the means For endless and precise routines – To serve our ev’ry labour and to never miss or tire.
There was a time before the steam, To which we dread return – But once the coke is up in smoke, Well, what then will we burn ? We’ve still got wind and rivers, sure, But only local clout – And charcoal gobbles trees the more, Till none are left to sprout. To where there’s folk about. Will there be times beyond the steam, A flywheel to prolong the dream ? If only we can tame the spark – The lightning bolt, the static arc – And store it, then release its bark ! Or else we face an Age of Dark, when all the lights go out.
Help ! A tramcar hollers and wails ! Careering for workers, three, four, five. A runaway tram is running the rails – How will the navvies survive ? But wait ! A set of points are looming – Switch the switches, stop the dooming Of the tappers, unassuming, Unaware they’re barely alive !
But no ! The branch line also bears A clueless worker – just the one, Who hasn’t seen the tram that tears, All twenty-seven ton. And there are we, beside the junction, Knowing points and how they function – Can we act without compunction, Should we do what should be done ?
And where has Health & Safety gone, With workers present on the track ? There’s something fishy going on, If no-one’s got their back. The dead man’s handle’s truly dead, The brakes un-tripped, the lights un-red. Reality, it seems, has fled – Ah well, let’s give their quiz a crack…
They say a tram is loose and live, So should we pull that fatal lever ? Should we kill the one…or five ? It’s easy – we kill neither ! Cut the power, wave our arms !, And shout a warning, raise alarms !, To keep all workers safe from harm – Then no-one needs to be a griever.
Make the shrinks despise and fear us, Scoffing their contrived disaster – If they claim the men won’t hear us, We shout louder !, we run faster ! Who cares for the rules they set ? We’ve got our own, and better yet. So will we stop the tram ? No sweat ! For common sense shall be our master.
Hear the dozen tongues that trip Around the top of ev’ry bus – They’re London’s latest membership, As once the immigrants were us. Not whence we came, but chose to dwell Is what defines our each success – And though we are our past as well, It comes to matter less and less. We’re changing daily, ev’ryhow, As our subconscious makes its choice – So we belong to London now, It’s in our eyes and in our voice.
I met her in the silly season: Ace reporter Lisa Leeson – Met her in the Summer, as it moved from high to late. She said she newly had the time For chilling with a gin and lime, And meeting with a stranger for a secret steamy date. Until the proper news arrived, She churned-out waffle, faffed and skived, To dodge the z-list luvvie-spotting at the village fete. And so we spent the Summertime Away from wars and wonks and crime, And nothing went on happening in law and trade and state.
Not a love-nest, romp, or threesome, Just myself and Lisa Leeson, While the ever-greedy presses must procrastinate – And so we joined our choice of queues, With not a thought to check reviews, For visits to the restaurants, the movies, and the Tate. But Summer changed to Autumn brown, And cooler breezes teased the town, And she could hear the calling of the headlines and the hate. So Lisa Leeson bid farewell, And broke our silly Summer’s spell By quitting idle drifting for a world that would not wait.
Well done, Ealing ! Macho, strong ! Build your towers, probe the sky, Pump your concrete, raise your steel – Bring the low-rise wimps to heel. Bravo, Ealing ! Far too long You’ve languished only four floors high – Never felt the bracing breeze When funnelled through a cut-price Mies.
Lord it over Christchurch spire, Just a finely-sculpted fop – It looks too good and stands too proud, It mocks too much to be allowed. Now we find when building higher, So our expectations drop – Mustn’t cling to ancient primes, For now we live in av’rage times.
Your flats will sell before their sheen Has moldered-off or ghetto-greyed. So price them at a hefty wad – For no cheap housing here, thank god ! And finally can Haven Green Now bask all year in deepest shade. Don’t be subtle – rage and shock, By showing them the finger-block.
Well done, Ealing ! Ditch the mild ! You’re pissing down to raise a stink. It’s meant to be so out-of-scale, This temple to the Thrusting Male. Bravo, Ealing – stay beguiled ! And who cares what they locals think ! Quit the Nineteenth Century, And welcome Nineteen Sixty-Three.
The ‘Leaf’ was a proposed wanger for Ealing in West London back in 2007. Alas, this was ditched in favour of the Dickins Yard wangettes of only 14 floors, which is only three-and-a-bit times too high. But just think what we could have had !
I know a modern architect who really loves his jazz. The hypocrite ! Still clinging to his Monk and Duke and Chas ! The music of the moment is the only sort allowed – Hip-hop, pop, and drum & bass – played endlessly and loud. For any newly-written jazz is just a quaint pastiche, So councillors and plutocrats must keep it on a leash. Keep it stark and minimal, without such syncopation – For finely-crafted solos are just needless decoration. And as for old recordings – don’t restore them, but adapt: Saxophones now synthesized, and melodies now rapped. Drum machines inserted, so’s to tell the new from old – Gut ’em out and fit ’em up – it’s brutal, brash and bold ! We’ll wipe the records clean to make the space for noises new, For songs are just machines for lis’ning to.
Rhyming Couplets 