Plastic Horns

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Plastic Horns

Evil isn’t the Devil,
Isn’t the psycho,
Isn’t the neo-fascist –
Evil isn’t our darkest nature,
Lurking silent in our midst.
For evil is our lazy thinking,
Seeking-out a covert plan –
And evil is our pointing finger,
Evil is our bogeyman.

Evil isn’t the Devil,
Isn’t a something,
Isn’t an absolute.
It’s simply things we hate, writ large –
Hyperbole that birthed a brute.
For evil triumphs when the good do nothing new,
So tropes persist –
For the greatest trick the Devil pulled,
Was just to not exist.

Lesson

Sermon on the Mount by Jim Collins

Lesson

I say unto you, not just he who kills,
Shall go to Hell.
But also he who harbours anger,
Even for a spell.
Call a man a fool, and that’s enough
For punishment eternal.
Likewise, give your cloak away,
Or face the flames infernal.
Lust after a women,
Even one who welcomes your attention,
And that lust is equal to adultery,
And Hell-detention.
An eye for an eye still stands,
But turn the other cheek for free –
Then pluck-out your eye and cut-off your hand
In macho purity.
Blessed are the peacemakers,
Unless you break the rules –
And then you’ll find no jot or tittle’s peace from God,
Ye fools !

Guising

Alas, I have been unable to find out any more information about this postcard

Guising

Did people ever really think that spirits roam in late October ?
So the safest thing to do was simply blend-in where they tread ?
Or that their feeble efforts would fool anyone who’s half-way sober,
With no more than sheets and make-believe to raise the dead ?

Was it to fool the spirits ?, or the humans ?, or themselves ?
Or a warning to the Church that it was not so at-the-head ?
Perhaps the latent superstitions conjured up such elves
As an outlet in the face of poverty and mortal dread ?

I think we always knew it was a chance to have some fun,
And to dress-up and be mischievous, and stay-up late-of-bed.
Even those who still believed in spirits, saw through ev’ryone –
But let the children have their fun, and spare a crust of bread.

The word ‘mischievous’ needs to be stressed in its first syllable – MISS-chiv-ous. Some people pronounce it is miss-CHEEV-ee-ous, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with this – except in this case, as then the line won’t scan.

A Venus Key

Steampunk Key by Turbosquid

A Venus Key

She has the key to my heart –
But just what does that mean ?
That my love is locked in a box, apart,
Unused, still mint, pristine ?
Or that my spring needs winding up,
Made taut and tense, and set to start ?
Or that my keyhole’s cup can sense
The subtle slide and gentle shove
From her cunning iron dart ?
From the only key that’s smart enough
To skeletise my love
With a twist of her art ?

‘Skeletise’ as in a skeleton key.

The Reichenbach Zombies

The Death of Sherlock Holmes by Sidney Paget

The Reichenbach Zombies

They come, from out of the pages,
Lurching-on for centuries,
Reanimated for the ages
By the editors and mages
Harvesting our cherished memories.

Too valuable to rest in peace,
They’re resurrected, forced to dance –
But the spark of life is cold within,
And nothing but a rictus grin
Reminds us of that once and lost romance.

Spearleeks

Eleven Garlic Scapes by Sheri Farabaugh

Spearleeks

The only way to dine on garlic
Ev’ry day or two,
Is to only visit friends who dine on garlic
Just like you.
So lace that bolognese another clove,
And stir it in that fry,
And then be sure to bring your friends around your stove
To have a try.
And don’t be so afraid to say très bon
When sharing peppy dips –
And don’t be shy to relish it when tasted on
Another’s lips.

Fall Back

Mystery of Time by Robert Zietara

Fall Back

The clocks are haunting Daylight Savings,
Goading us to stay in bed –
In late October, ancient cravings
Rear their bureaucratic head.
We skirt with time, we loop the sands,
Rewind once more the ancient rite –
We must perform the dance of hands
Upon the face of waning light.

The past is haunting Daylight Savings,
Logic lost to undead rules.
In late October, we’re the playthings
Of the limbo hour of fools.
We flirt with time, yet so habitual,
Barely offer an excuse –
We must perform the sacred ritual,
Stop all Hell from breaking loose.

Puzzle-Passageways

Relativity by Maurits Escher

Puzzle-Passageways

The trouble with a labyrinth,
Is that it feels so foreign –
Is that it has no logic
To its endless winding paths.
No hierarchy separating
Avenues from warrens,
As we trudge the many mazes
On our lost and aching calves.

Our only means of finding out
The route into the centre
Is by choosing random tracks
And by try-and-try-again –
With a dozen unsigned junctions
And a dozen doors to enter,
To a dozen cul-de-sacs,
And a single golden lane.

It makes sense in a dungeon,
With its safety-at-all-cost,
Or even on a garden,
Where the mapless lovers sally –
But why are city planners
Quite so keen to get us lost ?
Or to meet a Minotaur
Down a twisty, unlit alley…?

Serial Filler

Serial Filler

Is anything more boring
Than another psychopath ?
He’s the laziest of monsters,
That we’re somehow meant to fear.
Just a clichéd bogeyman,
Who’s killing for a laugh –
Ho-hum, the same old slasher
Whom they think we’ll dread or cheer.

Is this another true-live nutter,
After fame at any price ?
And we’re determined to reward them,
Cos we’re really dumb.
Or is it just a fantasy
Of living through their vice ?
Getting all our jollies
Till our empathy is numb.

Infernal Inferno

Paradise by Gustave Doré

        Infernal Inferno

Best be wary
Of Dante Alighieri,
Whose hellish depiction
Is turgid fan-fiction –
Trekking round each Circle
With Mary-Sue Virgil,
While snarking in the sleaze
Of revenge fantasies.

Strange how the Church
Has bought-up all his merch,
And turned this random blogger
Into Pope-approved-of dogma.
But worst of all, is any fool
Who has to labour-through at school,
Just hoping for a joke or three
Within his so-called Comedy.

No wait, don’t hate,
Don’t follow the gate
That tells us “Nope,
Abandon all hope !”

My anger is alive
In Circle number Five –
But no, I must not dwell
In this self-made Hell.

For Hell is more feeble –
It’s simply other people
With whom we disagree,
Like Dante is for me.
But to be more analytic,
Then Hell is just a critic
Complaining for eternity –
Don’t let that carping voice be me…