Incels

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Photo by Ku00e9vin Dorg on Pexels.com

Incels

The world belongs to the charismatic –
The ones who grab the eyes,
Who get the jobs and get the praise
As the rest are shrunk to size.
They’re the ones who get the lovers,
And who get to say their piece,
Who limber-up the shiny pole
Before they’ve poured the grease.

Not like we losers, dumped-on and ignored,
Who you gladly shun.
I could write a thousand poems,
And you’ll read not a single one –
And I have !  I’ve put myself out there,
For the whole world to ignore.
Always the tenth choice, always forgotten,
And kindly shown the door.

Not even my family bother.  Not even my friends,
Those few I have.
You don’t even trouble to mock me,
You don’t even point and laugh.
And when you notice at all, it’s only in hate,
At my loneliness –
You stoke-up your loathing, and relish your spite,
In panicked phoniness.

So spare me your pity, but also spare me a thought
Without disdain.
The world is cruel, but I’m not gonna go
On a killing-spree to complain.
I don’t hate women (sorry to disappoint),
I just want to connect –
Yet the world has labelled me as a weirdo,
A friend of a friendless sect.

The world belongs to the charismatic,
And even I am charmed.
For all I try to help-out likewise-souls
Before we’re harmed,
I get sidetracked by a beautiful smile
Or a loquacious mate-to-all,
And I send my eyes where a million others are looking,
Forever in thrall.

The Strut-Schwa merger

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The STRUT-SCHWA merger

Phoneticians claim there is a diff’rence,
But it’s lost on me.
The sounds they make all sound the same in this sense,
But they disagree.
I’ve always found I put my putts in as I should,
With no mishap.
They ask me how I say ago, but that’s no good,
It’s all a TRAP
To make me cook my FOOT-ing – but I got away
With other sounds –
And though unstressed, my parrot has a LOT to say,
My MOUTH abounds.
I have no schwa, yet they insist I’m nothing but,
And lack the other.
That’s the wrong way round – my STRUT vowel loves to strut –
So hear me brother !

Dun’t be tut-tut muttering,
And shut-up huff-puff stuttering,
Cos mums and bucks and toughs and loves,
Come cut-a-rug just uttering !
Our skulls are humming, bloods are drumming,
You can’t smother us now, guv.
We sure ain’t parlous cos we’re schwa-less,
Under and above !

Kismet Cat

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AI has not quite hit the jackpot this time, I feel…

Kismet Cat

Felix the feline is one lucky cat,
When he’s flexing his whiskers and flicking his tail.
He flows full of favour wherever he’s sat,
As his belly is fed and his wishes prevail.
He’s better than strays, he thinks, when stroked and patted –
This fortune’s no fluke, but his fate, he infers –
For this Felis felicitous, flea-less and fatted,
The flux of the fluence is heard in his purrs.

Kae-Tlihn

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A still from the video The Most Inconvenient Name In the World by magnify, which gave me the idea.

Kae-Tlihn

Katelyns come in many shapes,
Though speak with just one voice –
For Caitlinns like to pulls such japes
And offer endless choice –
In just a pair of syllables,
Their spellings can’t decide.
They like to play us all for fools
And force us to decide.
But don’t they ever tire of all
The errors of their name ?
But at least whenever others call,
They’re all pronounced the same.

Parasites

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Photo by Macro Photography on Pexels.com

Parasites

Out there in the wood
Is the old oak tree,
Just lapping-up the sunshine,
All of it for free.
But there in its branches,
There lies the mistletoe,
Just sucking-up the sap
Of its clueless host below.
And there on this shrub
Is a little caterpillar,
That’s munching on the leaves
Like a cute and stealthy killer.
And inside of the bug there lurks
The grubling of a wasp,
As it chews-through the organs,
Squatting like a boss.
But inside the grubling
Is another, smaller maggot
Of a teeny-tiny wasplet
That will wear it like a jacket,
And inside of the maggot
Is a nematody worm,
And further inside that
There is a microscopic germ…
So they each are chowing-down,
And they each are getting fatter,
Till they burst-out of the body,
That they leave in such a tatter.
But the enemies of enemies
Don’t turn-out to be friends agen –
Just ask the plague that bit the fleas,
Then bit the rats, then bit the men…

Silicon Britons

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You really have to hand it to AI, it sure does love flawless skin and a good polish.

Silicon Britons

(A Tale from the Fifties)

We’ll see them, on the bus,
Or cheering-on the football,
Or traipsing-round the National Trust,
Or belting out the Proms.
They’ll read The Times and join our clubs,
While adding to our footfall,
As they jostle in our lunchtime pubs,
And polishing their ROMs.

Maybe robots, maybe androids,
Meeting humans, kissing, breeding –
Raising mixed-race cyborgs
In the family Morris Minor.
They proudly learn to get-to-grips
With walking dogs and Sunday weeding –
British to their very microchips,
(Though made in China).

Custodia Golgothae

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Roman Soldier with Vesuvius Erupting Behind by Peter Jackson – nothing to do with the poem, but too fun not to…

Custodia Golgothae

“Say ye, ‘his disciples came by night, and stole him away while we slept’.”

– Matthew 28:13

“You what ?  You want we let you take
The very thing we’re here to guard ?
And claim we couldn’t keep awake,
While you came by to simply shake
The boulder from the tomb ?
Have you a notion just how hard
And noisy that would be ?
Or how to fall asleep on duty
Likely means our doom ?

Keep your shekels, keep your plot –
And we shall keep our heads.
For losing corpses, like as not,
Is something that won’t be forgot –
And fatal to behold.
It’s late – best be off to your beds,
And let the fallen rest.
Remember him when at his best,
Not when he’s lying cold.”

The Holy Grail

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A modern reproduction of a terracotta Roman cup by Potted History

The Holy Grail

The cup was just another cup,
And owned by just an inn.
Its purpose was to hold the liquids
Poured out of the skin.

It would be simple earthenware,
With not a jewel in sight –
A vessel meant to do a job,
Like any other night.

It wasn’t the cup of a carpenter,
For it never was his to own –
But merely rented for the meal
As a unremarked-on loan.

It would be washed and set at table,
With a dozen more –
And used by other lips tomorrow –
That’s what cups are for…

Relics are just relics
Of the talismans of old –
Why the search for dreaming clays,
And not the wines they hold ?

The Gospels often mention who is hosting Jesus for a meal, so the fact that they are silent on who provided the Upper Room for the Last Supper makes me think it could have been at an inn.  And although this was a Passover meal, it seems unlikely the establishment would have kept a separate set of crockery just for one day.  The vessels were probably made from the local terra rossa or marl clay, producing earthenware, with minimal decoration similar to that shown (albeit at the other end of the Empire).

And on a tangent, but isn’t it curious how obsessed we are with the grail that held the original wine, but couldn’t care less about the platter that held the original bread ?

The Moniker Mutations

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Photo by Yan Krukau on Pexels.com

The Moniker Mutations

Here’s little Johnny Jones,
The sprog of Jack and Jane –
They all live together
In Lower Linnet Lane.
He has a pet tabby
That he christened Jezebel,
And he thinks she has a better name than he has,
Truth to tell.
I mean, ‘John Jones’,
That’s utter tautology –
In only two syllables,
Not even three !

He could have been a Sean –
Had he been more Irish-born
But it just wasn’t on –
He was only ever fit to be a John.

Now if he were a rock star,
What would he be called ?
Well, his mother’s maiden name
He thinks was Archibald.
So Jezebel Archibald ?
Or maybe Jesse Archie ?
That doesn’t really work,
It all sounds rather starchy.
But he also has a pet fish
He keeps in a jar –
So how about Goldie Linnet ?
That sounds like a star !

He could have been an Ivor,
Like a Welsh-born striver,
But that chance has gone –
He was only ever in the frame for John.

But this gets him thinking,
Now his lamp is rubbed –
If he were born a Viking
Then what would he be dubbed ?
He would have been known as
Johnny Jacksson there,
Or maybe Johnny Janesson
These days, to be fair.
Or else John FitzJacob,
That has a real ring –
His grandad is a Roy,
Which would make him out a king…!

He could have been a Ewan,
Had Scottish been his doing –
Now there’s a name to don !
But he only gets to dress-up in his John.

But what about in Russia
In a Checkov play, for fun ?
Ivan Ivanovich Ivanov,
Searching for his gun.
His parents call him Sport
For his energy and judo –
So in the Roman Empire,
He’s Ioannes Ionius Ludo.
All-in-all, much better
Than his Johnny, that’s for sure !
Maybe ‘God is gracious’,
But this name is just a bore.

He could have been a Hans
Or a Joni, or a Vanya,
Or Gianni, or a Jean –
Infact anything is better than a John !

Tina

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Another classic by Anon

Tina

Thanks to capitalism,
We have architecture no-one likes,
And public transit never-built,
With roads for cars but not for bikes.
Thanks to capitalism,
Our health care is on life support,
While education fails our kids,
And long-term planning comes up short.

Penny-pinching,
Fiscal-flinching,
Skimping on the maintenance.
Worker-bashing,
Honour-trashing,
Crashing to advance.

Thanks to capitalism,
There are no houses for our youth –
The green belt is all gobbled-up
And the rents are through the roof.
Thanks to capitalism,
Our pension pots are all a lie.
With bankers-gamblers hailed as heroes –
Growth or else we die !

Peacock-strutting,
Corner-cutting,
Gutting-out all common sense,
Sponsor-selling
Porkie-telling,
Shelling-out mere pence.

Thanks to capitalism,
The MP knows who his donor is,
While banks are printing money
That they use to pay their bonuses.
Thanks to capitalism,
Now the planet isn’t fit to live –
But still our politicians say
There is no alternative.

Saggy-scruples,
Legal-loopholes,
Snooping data from the fools,
Stripping assets,
Running bad debts,
No regrets, no rules.