A crossword book with a pen attached – Now isn’t that thoughtful…there must be a catch… Of course ! It’s a pen, not a pencil they proffer – It’s starting to look like less of an offer. We have to commit to the answers we choose No try-this-for-nows or perhaps-that’ll-dos. Just black squares and white squares, Such tiny wee white squares, And make one mistake and the whole grid will sink – So pencil-pussies best beware, This game is won by those who dare, By those who leave their mark on life in ink.
This virus has me in her grip, But hey ho, I’ll survive. I tell myself she’s just a blip, A cocky pirate boarding ship – I’m wrapped-up tight against her nip, But very much alive. She’s in control and letting rip, And I must join her on her trip.
And whoa, here comes the whooziness – Don’t panic, take it steady. This floozy ain’t so doozy And her poison ain’t so heady. My thoughts might be a little hoarse, My sleep a little sore, But best to let her run her course – She’s nothing I ain’t seen before.
She comes at me in jumbled dreams And thoughts that slip and glitch. Her technicoloured jump-cut scenes Are selling-out my mental screens, With fevered swirls and acid sheens That quickly skip and switch. She won’t sustain a metaphor, But throws them off and coins some more.
Her visit’s sure to last all week, And while she’s home, she leaves her streak With red of nose and pale of cheek, And watery of eye – But I can shrug and I can wait, And slowly, slowly, decimate, And slam the door and bar the gate, And bid the bitch bye-bye.
The neons and fluorescents Are more swimming than they’re dancing, The hubbub throb is muzzier, The tinnitus is buzzier – But sweats are less incessant now, And dreams are less entrancing. The fever breaks on which I surf, My bones are bumping back to earth.
Photo by Markus Spiske temporausch.com on Pexels.com
Berlingo
Berlin – City of the english Language, All Thanks to Hollywood and Touristdollars – With bilingual Signs to ease our Angst and Anguish, And fluent Secondtonguers and subconscious Scholars. From Burntborough Square to Prince Elector Way Welcome to Berlinnington-on-Spray.
I’ve always heard them say That Golden Brown and Perfect Day Are smuggling in some heroin Cos that’s so rock & roll ! But I don’t think that’s such a feat When looking at each lyric sheet – There’s nothing there to threaten or cajole.
The Stranglers waltz around with metaphor About…well, what ? Some vagaries that lapse into an ideal love, perhaps, To fox our trot, but little more. And Lou is not opaque at all, Just thanks for needed company – And if it’s from a needle, well, He fails to wink sufficiently.
Now, there’s no reason songs can’t hide Another message deep inside, But usually they’re straight ahead – And if we let our fancies fly We’re chasing diamonds in the sky And swearing blind that Paul is dead.
Another supposed drug song is Under The Bridge. I’m sure its author is sincere in explaining his motivation, but the lyrics themselves are far too generic, about nothing more than alienation in LA. Coming to this blind, there is little chance of the listener decyphering just why Mr Kiedis is so gloomy. Indeed, I still contest that the song is singing about lonliness, not about injections. The latter may have caused the former, but that’s completely irrelevent to the song, because the song only cares to tell us that the singer is alone, not why they’re alone.
As to that why, there is one line that identifies the eponymous bridge as the place where the narrator “drew some blood”, which might point us in the right direction, but there’s absolutely no other line to back it up – causing your teenage author to wrongly assume it was talking about self-harm.
Of course, songwriters are under no obligation for their lyrics to be able to operate in a vacuum, theirs is a different medium, but don’t be surprised if the groovy kids a hundred years from now are scratching their heads and think it’s all about urban planning.
And on a completely unrelated matter, is heroin actually golden brown in colour ? Not claiming to be an expert, but isn’t it either a black lump or a white powder ? At least, that’s how it’s always shown in the movies…
Since I didn’t want to make light of a real trial, here’s an imagined courtroom sketch from Julia Quenzler for The Archers.
The View from the Dock
They’ll haul me in the dock, one day, To face down my accusers, And place my fate within the hands Of twelve good folk and true. I’ll shiver in the dock, one day, The haunt of knaves and bruisers: Where many made their final stands Before the kangaroo.
But wait, It’s not the judge Whom I should fear, Nor bailiffs, Though they drag me here, Nor barristers, Intent to smear my name. No, my innocence or shame Is solely in the verdict of my peers:
This dozen-crowd, As proud as me, And stupid, sometimes, Fancy-free, And bloody-minded, Woolley-headed, Steely-stern, And feather-bedded. Cunning folk, And worldly-wise, From bigwig sharks To little guys: Folk I know Down to the letter – Folk like me, For worse and better.
And how will they view me, these folk ? As one of them ? An av’rage bloke ? As someone who could someday be themselves ? So send me down or set me free, But you, m’lud, can’t humble me ! For justice, guilt, and mercy comes in Twelves.
Hey, I hear you’re godless – And your universe is empty, And this life that you are living Is your only shot at plenty, And your death will be your ending, And your birth was just a chance, And your soul is just your neurons, And your story is a minor space romance. But are you happy ? Or is your logic just a bluff ? When you’re only made from dust, Is this lonely world enough ?
Hey, I hear you’re godless – But you say the Heavens wallow In a myriad of wonders, With a thousand more tomorrow – And although our death is scary, So much more-so is the chance Of our ever even being, To be living in this epic space romance. I guess you’re happy, It seems you’ve really found your style – Hey, I hear you’re godless, But it’s great to see you smile.
There’s no such thing as in-the-round, For ev’ry stage has front and sides, And despite ev’ry good intention, Actors shall forget the wides. So sit dead centre, free from such malarkey – For ev’ry circle has its hierarchy.
Round tables, while we’re at it, End up far from democratic: Always there’s a head, and it’s Whichever side King Arthur sits. Then right hand, left hand, straight across – There’s no disputing who’s the boss.
Caterpillars metamorph, from juvenile to butterfly, And maggots turn to ants and wasps and beetles, by and by, And tadpoles can be newts and salamanders, toads and frogs But when it comes to mammals, well, There’s little change of which to tell, For puppies only ever get to grow up into dogs. But you know, that’s not quite true – we’re changing too, Though the other way round: See, larvae are more evolved than their parents – Their bodies the new kids in town. But we, you and me, start out as a fish With proto-gills and a tail to swish In a primordial sea of warm – Then it’s time to move, to shed our skin, And let our reptile-selves begin: Engage, evolve, transform ! It’s time to metamorphosise, We mongrel robots in disguise, From instar into more-bizarre, Our restless genes must shift and swarm And take this blood-cold world by storm By becoming the mammals, the furry mammals we are ! But don’t stop now, the urge ain’t gone – I don’t know what’s next, but I feel it coming on…
Cell to Cell by Maria Cobo, using live bacteria as paint.
Doublelife
Hey kids, here’s fun to boggle your mind: Take a bacterium, brainless and blind – Now, a single-celled critter is never alone, When three-times-an-hour it buds off a clone, And each twin is twinning and growing the brood, (As long as it’s warm and there’s plenty of food).
And so, in fourteen hours or so, That single bacillus will grow To fill a cubic millimetre – After twenty, there’s a litre – And in one day, a bathtub’s-worth Of constant twenty-minute births. That’s loads of germs from hardly any – Two-and-twenty-one zeros-many !
But don’t stop now, let’s let them grow: And in another day or so They’ve reach the size of planet Earth, And soon they match the Sun’s great girth, And long before the third day’s out They stand a cubic light-year stout.
And that, dear children, clearly shows How statisticians lie and cheat For while their figures all add up, The real world is never neat. They think we’ll never notice how Their precious model’s skewed, By casually just poofing up An infinite amount of food. And how do bugs within the ball Increase in size where there’s no space ? And never mind their gravity, Of which we find no trace.
The lesson we should really learn From all they get so wrong, Is how such exponential growth Can never grow for long.
“Granville Sharp the abolitionist and Lord Mansfield of the King’s Bench are well known, but the eponymous defendant is more of a mystery.”
The Sunday Items
He ran from the court To the door of his champion, Slaved no more, And he knocked on the door of his champion To show he was free – He ran from the court and he ran from our history.
Did James and Granville then Shake hands like proper gentlemen ? Did they embrace, perhaps, In a quite un-English way ? We cannot say, For James is never heard agen.
Did he and Granville, As they bid goodbye, Look in one-another’s eye And share a smile and knowing nod That seemed to subtly imply “We’ve started something here, by God !”
Maybe he died that very day, Or lived another three long score, Maybe rich, maybe poor – He went about his way. The last we see of James Is at that door.
