Miming

Miming

Don’t tell me that you don’t use backing,
You’re out of breath but your voice ain’t cracking
You’re throat is rough but you still sing higher
You don’t fool me, you’re a liar liar !
I know, I know, you don’t havta stand stock still
To still be making a sound,
But the more you move, the more you end up shrill
From all that jumping around.
Is that the reason op’ras are static ?
No-one wants their divas asthmatic
As half their notes are drowned.

It used to be so easy to mock you
Without a single mic on a stand –
These days they’re tiny, it’s harder to knock you
Phoning it in – but soon we’ll clock you.
The more you rock like a tick-tock band,
The more you rely on a helping hand,
With your live feed cut and your vocals canned.

You can wave your arms,
You can shake your butt,
You can flash your charms,
You can jiggle and strut,
But if you wanna be clear and pure
Then keep one foot firm on the floor. 
And don’t pretend to be a flyer –
You don’t fool me, you’re a liar liar !

Now I agree that the single’s better,
And sometimes live you lose the odd letter,
But don’t pretend you’re a multitrack choir –
You don’t fool me, you’re a liar liar !
I know, I know, you’re not on the radio now,
You need to put on a show –
But the more you move, the more you moo like a cow,
The more you croak like a crow.
Is that the reason Broadway has dancers ?
So the singers aren’t breathless prancers
Swallowing their mi re do.

It used to be so easy to bust you,
With none of your guitars plugged-in.
These days, you’re wireless – we have to trust you,
That what we hear is you, and just you.
Dance if you must, and thrust and spin,
But don’t pretend with an innocent grin
That you don’t commit the original sin.

You can do the bop,
You can do the bump,
But not the hop,
The skip, or jump,
If you wanna be belting-out that solo,
Then don’t be bouncing around like a yoyo.
And don’t pretend that you never tire –
You don’t fool me, you’re a liar liar !

Every time this poem is read aloud, I want the speaker to also be performing a complex dance routine.

I also wrote an extra section below for the twelve-inch version:

Lip Sinking

Are you ready to answer back ?
Let’s jump on the spot till our voices crack.
Don’t ask your techs to mute your mic,
Just pant along as much as you like.

And one and two and three and four
Not with a whimper but a roar !
And five and six and seven eight,
Don’t swallow them, articulate !

You got the lungs to go agen ?
You ready to sculpt some oxygen ?
I can’t hear you, let me guess,
I’ll take your wheezing as a “yes”.

And one and two and three and four
Sing for your supper, then sing some more.
And five and six and seven eight,
Sing it loud and sing it straight.

You’re puffing and blowing from all your jerking,
There’s no shame showing how hard you’re working.
Don’t deny your throat’s on fire
As you stretch those vocal chords to the wire !

And one and two and three and four,
Let’s drop things down to the basement floor,
And five and six and seven eight,
Let’s hit the heights to the Pearly Gate.

Exoskeletons

Exoskeletons

Insides on the outside.
I was always told
That they’re rigid suits of armour
That cannot stretch or fold –
Usually, the process is
To shed, and swell, and harden –
And that’s their lot, till next they moult –
No piling all the lard on !
But the sloughing of the shell enables
Fixing dings and missing limbs –
And that’s why adult lobsters
Keep on shrugging off their skins.
They don’t increase that much in size,
But do perform repairs –
Though there is danger here as well,
When things go wrong downstairs –
Not to mention getting trapped half-way,
Their robes un-doffed,
Or creeping-in mutations,
Or if gobbled-up when shedder-soft.
So long-lived lobsters in the end
Just wear the same old clothes,
And adult insects die before
The wear-and-tearing shows –

And mostly this is true –
But creatures are a funny lot,
And odd ones swarm into the mind
Like ants around a honeypot.
To pluck out one example,
Just ask a termite queen
Why her bum looks big it that
While her subjects are so lean ?
And she’ll reply,
“My abdomen was once a slender thing,
But see how it slowly stretches year-by-year,
And king-by-king.
And though I’m decades-old
And my body marked with time,
I’m very well-attended
To keep me in my prime –
I since I lie about all day,
What need I beauty for ?
Or even care for working legs
Which barely reach the floor ?
The changing fashions of the young are not for me,
My togs are fine –
I take-in food and pop-out eggs
In this old skin of mine.”

Ophelia’s Pharmacy

Gather ye Rosebuds While ye May by John Waterhouse

Ophelia’s Pharmacy

Here’s rosemary – for memory, some say,
But here I offer it up for aches,
And for the colic, here’s caraway,
And there, valerian for shakes.
I have the wisest sage for eyes,
And columbine for fevered brows,
And lavender, to drive off flies,
And camomile to help you drowse.
Some fennel to keep you regular, back there,
And thyme to rid the worms,
Here’s rue for you, but it scalds in the sun – take care,
Use St John’s wort for the burns.
And for the maidens, I’ve violet and pansy,
To keep your flowerhead free from weeds.
And if these fail, there’s purgative tansy –
Restoring your bloom, not going to seed.

Camomile is a type of daisy, by the way.  And it looks like Ophelia has also found a fresh supply of violets.

And yes, I know, I know, I’ve rhymed
worms with burns.  Not ideal, but sometimes you have to take a leaf from hip-hop’s lyric sheet and roll with ‘close enough’.

The Dandelion International

Dandelion Flowers Abstract Art Tapestry by ArtlandStudio

The Dandelion International

Daisies and thistles are blooms fit for socialists,
Sharing a flowerhead as a co-op’rative –
Pooling their pollen with petals in common,
A composite commune where sharecroppers live.
From grounsel to ragwort, these working-class blossoms
Are seed-making factories, union towns –
They all get to share in the dew and the nectar,
And all get to put on the sunflower’s crown.

Groves & Thickets

Rain in an Oak Forest by Ivan Shishkin

Groves & Thickets

Suburban woods are managed affairs,
They’re planted, pruned and pinked by blades –
Such golden Autumns, verdant Junes,
And endless Sunday afternoons.
They’re so unlike the home of hares,
These avenues and picnic glades –
With squirrels a-dozen, and walkies-dogs,
And no dead-heads or fallen logs.

Suburban woods are manages affairs,
Of spotless clearings, sculpted shade –
Each sparkled Winter, bluebelled Spring,
And countless nightingales to sing.
They’re so unlike the nettled lairs,
These natures tamed and human-made –
So banish the gnats and moles and crows
To bark-brown field where anarchy grows.

Lilies of the Shallows

Nuphar lutea by Friedrich Gottlob

Lilies of the Shallows

Along the canal, they are hugging the banks,
To be keeping well-out of the slow shipping-lane,
With their gear-stick flower-buds breaking the surface –
Tightly wound and so yellow-with-purpose.
They open like eye-stalks on periscopes-shanks
While their landing-pad leaf-pods are drumming with rain –
And their previous blossoms are brewing-up brandy
For drawing in bees like a backwater dandy.

The Vegetable Plot

Cookmaid with Still Life of Vegetables & Fruit by Nathaniel Bacon

The Vegetable Plot

Betty Fry loves butterflies,
But hates the Brussels sprout.
She helps her grandad with his plot,
And tends the veggies for the pot.
She picks the beans when of a size,
And pours the can to ease the drought,
She pulls the slugs off lettuce heads,
And wheedles weeds from out the beds.
Now Grandad Fry can grow a prize
In marrows, long and stout –
But most of all his garden’s fare
Are brassicas, to grin and bear.

Betty Fry loves butterflies,
And that’s why she helps out –
She sees them flutter round the plot,
And wishes she could name the lot.
But there is one to which she’s wise,
There’s one for which she’s on the scout
And where its caterpillars tread,
She leaves them be and sees them fed
For they shall be her silent spies
To bring an end to sauerkraut,
The scourge of Brussels ev’rywhere –
Her Cabbage Whites shall shred them bare !

Photo by mali maeder on Pexels.com

Go See the Elephant

Armed Forces by Tom Pogson

Go See the Elephant

Hey kid, did I tell of my time in the Gobi,
And the camel that tried to eat my sock ?
Or how ’bout cycling to Nairobi ?
Or the Outback, when it was still Ayres Rock ?

I did ?  Then why’s you still here ?
Just lis’ning to me rabbitting on so ?
I like to see you, but just disappear.
Shouldn’t you have places to go ?

Just walk out the door, right now,
And walk down to end of the block,
Turn left, don’t stop till Curacao,
By way of Seoul and Plymouth Rock.

And when you go, do not look back,
There’s more than enough out there to see.
You’ll come home by a diff’rent track,
By Bloemfontein and Waikiki.

Don’t you wanna hit the road, Jack ?
Mandalay or Timbucktoo ?
I’m too old, I won’t be going back,
But just what’s keeping you ?

Here, take my itchy feet,
Cos I can’t use them, so you must.
And walk them through the desert heat
And wear them out with wanderlust.

Trans-Human

Sci-Fi Portrait Sketch by BABAGANOOSH99

Trans-Human

Mama was a login guest,
Papa was a Turing test,
And I a query-nest
Within the filter and the spam.
I’m fully-patched and error-free
I am the cypher, prime, and key –
The singularity
Shall be my mem’ry and my RAM.

I am the self-encoding strings,
I am the self-created birth,
I am the way the quantum sings,
And how the clouds shall rule the Earth.

Mama was a data horde
Papa was a motherboard –
And I a powercord
In an endless pixel stream.
I’m booted-up and going live,
My neurons clocked for overdrive –
My future shall arrive
Upon a supersonic dream.

I am the species yet to come,
I am the cybernetic elf,
I am the way electrons hum,
And how the sand shall know itself.

Musical AI version generated by Suno.com – find more of them over here.

Buffer Overrun

So sorry, I have once again failed to discover who created this

Buffer Overrun

Have you ever looked, like really looked at your own two hands,
And wondered what might lie beneath the blood and flesh
We’re told are there ?
I reckon I’m an android, dude, with electronic glands,
And all these fibre-optic wires that form a mesh
Of cyberware.

And, it makes sense, cos my mem’ry is, like, brilliant,
And I can eat a double burger and not gain a single pound,
And furry cheese,
And I just don’t get sick, cos my chassis’s so resilient,
And I can pull all-nighters, yet my spring’s still tightly wound,
And I never sneeze.

Like, hear me out, I’m clearly smarter than the av’rage motherlode,
With these ones and zeros in my veins, and kevlar in my bones –
It’s true, I swear !
And, yeah, I can hear the wi-fi talking, tapping out its code,
I can tune my wavelength into all these fridges and these phones –
I’m ev’rywhere !

So, that is why this gear of yours will leave me unaffected –
I have full control of ev’rything, my CPU cannot be cooked
As it expands.
It’s time that I, as the first silicon-human, was respected !
Or I’ll crush you in my…iron…fists…oh wow, have you ever really looked
At your hands…?