In this temple of angels, We’re pilgrims in limbo, Awaiting Saint Peter to check in our baggage – To weigh out our burdens, And peer at our passports, And turn us away, or to bid us safe passage. And then we are summoned By guardian cherubim, Prodding and stripping and shriving our souls. Our pockets are emptied, Our liquids are measured – And we submit meekly, as humble as foals. So on through the pearly gates, Searching for metal, And out into Heaven, we worthy and pure. No longer unclean, We are free of all duty, Absolved of suspicion, we’re righteous once more. We browse through the magazines, Sip our espressos, And wait for our boarding as one patient crowd. And once we are seated, We are the departed – Our spirits are flying first-class to the clouds.
Bottled water ? What a skeeving, What an tosser, what a waste – A plastic-spewing aqui-thieving, Just to get the same damn taste ! Ever since the Romans dreamed Of aquaducts of running water, Engineers have turned their streams Into a torrent, piped to order. Teeth are whiter, homes are cleaner, Cholera and lead are gone – Footprints smaller, gardens greener – Thrown away for Evian ! Hipsters sip ’em, yuppies neck ’em, Horrified by simple tap. The only brand I drink is Peckham – Piss-off Perrier, you’re full of crap !
Tag, goes the virus, And suddenly, I’m it, Chasing, and panting, And laughing, and transmit. No rules for no-backsies, It’s free-for-all, all day No sitting this one out, We’re all of us in-play. They say this game is older Than ancient Babylon. I’ve given you my secret – Pass it on.
After the storm, in the fury’s wake, When the wind is an innocent breeze, It barely can muster a half-hearted shake Through what remains of the trees, But knows its debris demonstrates Where a mighty chaos strode – In toppled fences, shattered slates, And a litter of twigs in the road.
After the storm, in the cyclone’s calm, When the wind is feeble and spent, It sheepishly strokes us, meaning no harm, As it whispers its way through the vent. But the proof of its debauched revelry Is strewn from the park to the square – And it’s secretly proud of its devilry As it gently ruffles our hair.
Somewhen early in the tetrapods, The limbs all ended in fives. They weren’t placed there by any gods, But by whatever survives. And even then, the fifth was smaller, With one joint fewer to flex – So even when we stood-up taller, The same stubby thumb projects.
Somewhen early in the primate time, We took to trees when stressed, And found our thumbs could help us climb If they opposed the rest. And so they carried, worked, and threw, With a thumbs-up and okay, When the runt of the fin with phalanges-two Hitched a ride on its DNA.
Somewhen, late in far far future, We may make do with fewer – Our pinkie, perhaps, a vestigial moocher, No longer much of a doer. Just ask the horses, running on a finger, The others written-out of their glands – Best to keep using ’em, that way they’ll linger, For genes have little use for idle hands.
Love, like jazz, is something that I’ve never braved, It’s not been in my bracket. Never tempted, never close-shaved – Whatever, I’m happy still to lack it. But you demand my offbeat soul be saved, And freed from its long-sleeved jacket – Assuming me as crippled and enslaved, Or thinking I just can’t hack it. But I have all the fellowship I craved, Without it costing a packet – So love, like jazz, has passed me by unscathed, In all its faff and racket.
Double-A in English ? Well, that can’t be right. What are we to do with this alpha-oversight ? A whiff of the exotic, though who knows from which address ? So how do we pronounce it ? I guess we’ll have to guess. It looks a bit Old-Testament, like Baal the Canaanite, Although surely ancient Hebrews had a diff’rent way to write ? With diff’rent letter-forms, and with not-a vowel included – Whoever chose the spellings in the Roman was deluded ! With a single-A that’s long and a double-A that’s short, Spelling things in English shouldn’t be a tricky sport… Our batteries are flat and our gearboxes stall – So we need to gain sobriety, but just who can we call ?
Infact, the double-A in Hebrew loaners are probably a relic of a slight ‘h’ sound between them, splitting them into two separate syllables. The Greeks, when translating the Bible, had little use for mid-word H’s, and eventually the sounds merged (though not the letters, because as everyone knows spelling must remain fossilised). See also Aaron.
And yes, I am aware that Aardvaark is usually spelled with only three A’s, and I’ve decided I don’t give a toss. Maybe Afrikaans pronounces ‘aar’ and ‘ar’ differently, but nobody in English does (hence the difference (and lack of difference) between Haarlem and Harlem). So if you are happy being silly in the front half, then I see no reason to get serious with the aarse-end.
The lurgy has broken my sleeping – Sweated, disrupted, and long. With headaches and backaches from keeping A posture my joints say is wrong. Repeating the same-old distresses Again and again, like a glitch in the stream – A nightmare that never progresses, A scratch in the grooves of a dream. But the night will pass, And with it this slough – It cannot last, I just have to live it for now. What once was a refuge is fevered and seeping, Brought on by this succubus lodged in my chest – The lurgy has broken my sleeping, And left me in need of a rest.
Mr Dan Brown, author extr’ordinaire, Thrilling and gripping and Devil-may-care – His fans want adventure, his fans want romance, And intrigue uncovered from New York to France, And heroes so clever and rugged and bold – The sillier the story, the tighter it’s told. Fast-and-loose plotting, his signature style – From airport to bedside, from breathless to smile.
And what of Da Vinci ? Would he agree ? Or would he be fuming, consumed in a rage, As he turns and turns the page ?
Now you and I both might well disagree, And see them as pulpy and intellect-free, With sneers at the ready, with snoots in the air – How we love to play pedant and cry it’s not fair. He’s got his facts skewed and his history wrong, So we have to correct him, for loud and for long. We’re putting him right and we’re putting him down – But the sales, they keep coming for Mr Dan Brown.
And what of Da Vinci ? Would he agree ? Or would he be laughing, strutting the stage, As he turns and turns the page ?
Dan Brown is on record saying that the ‘truths’ presented in The Da Vinci Code are all true. This of course is bollocks. But it is also irrelevant. And that infamous page of ‘facts’ at the start of the novel are just that – the start of the novel, a part of its world, and in no way to be criticised for not being a history textbook.
Remember, an author is under absolutely no obligation to tell the truth either on the page or off it – and indeed the whole point of fiction is to lie with style.
And yes, I am aware that I capitalised the Da in Da Vinci as if it were a surname and not an adjective. If you find this upsetting, then this is definitely the wrong blog for you.
Rhyming Couplets 