When did cars become so boring ? When did roads become less roaring ? When did bland become okay ? Paintjobs dull as office flooring – Offered in a monochrome of grey.
Call it Silver, call it Graphite, Brooding Shadow, Summer Midnight Any guff that comes to mind – But once we see them in the light You’re surely fooling no-one but the blind.
White and black are offered too, And boy, that’s really big of you, But what will people think ? Leary over red or blue, And terrified of lemon, lime, or pink.
Remember – we were bright and fun Before the mortgage and school run ? Oh, we were colourful and proud ! The dial tuned to Radio 1 – Not Archers, Proms, or Magic, not too loud.
The reason, I suspect, is that Our Chelsea Tractors grew so fat Our excess-baggage showed. And so we dressed them down in matt To blend in with the tarmac of the road.
And as a side-effect, we get To hide the dirt and hide the threat That purple-headed Greens advance. So boring cars are worth it yet To motor on in blissful ignorance.
The Moon is locked into the Earth, She only shows her best side, Keeps her dark side turned away. But the Earth has nothing to hide, Beneath her gaze, we spin on full display, For the Earth is not beholden to the Moon – Not yet, at least – And it won’t be soon, For the Earth is a massive beast. Yet the Moon is trying, trying, And will yet succeed, one day – But not before the seas have boiled away.
Now take a smaller star instead, Like Proxima Centauri – Very dwarven, very red. But orbiting we see Proxima Bee – A planet similar to Earth, An eighth as close as Mercury, With liquid water on its bed. Except, to be precise, More likely steam and ice, With one side always baking dry, The other frozen, dark and dead. You see, when this close in, it does not spin – But wait, that’s wrong, We ought to say it has a year-long day, Where the tide is strong.
Now let’s imagine orbiting round Rigel, A super-blue, so hot and bright, And though a massive mass, his heat and light Outpace his gravity – So if we were to move the Earth to where We’ll get a decent share to keep it all anthropical, To keep the Arctic icy and to keep the tropics tropical, We wouldn’t be so deep within his spacetime cavity. You see – we’d need to be about, say, twelve-times-Neptune out – That’s over two light-days. Our seasons would last centuries, our year now thirteen-hundred years And all to catch enough, but strictly not too many rays. And actually, the daylight would be rather dim, I hear – As most of Rigel’s output, it appears, Is in the UV band, And not the visible so much, not that far out. So even though it’s warm, no doubt, The photosynthesis of plants now won’t get such a shout, While all of us get super-tanned. His stellar wind is vicious, but I think we could withstand From this far off – but satellites may end in tears. But at least we get to spin on our own gears, So that’s a win. Rigel hasn’t got a hope to lock us in !
As I understand it, a planet wouldn’t naturally form so far out from its parent star, as there’s not enough material. Of course, it could be a captured rogue planet or ripped from another star.
Also, I saw Rigel’s name written down in the astronomy books of my youth long before I heard anyone ever pronounce it, so for me Rigel will always have a hard G.
Meanwhile, you can catch-up some more with Proxima Bee over here, and see a cameo by Rigel thisaway.
We all of us Are branded and defined – So that must make me… Well…nevermind. If you catch my name Then all the better, But it won’t be me who drops A single letter. Cos if I’m any good, Then you’ll find out in the end – It will beam out through the ether It will sneak out round the bend. But just for now, Go easy on the fame – My ego, it can take it If you don’t know what’s my name.
If you really wanna know Then you can learn it – But honestly, I think I gotta earn it. And as for folks Who helped me get along – They’re worth a hand, They’re worth a whole-damn song. But they’re more then gabbled names And anecdotes – And since you’ve never heard of them, Best save it for the liner-notes. But if you leave my presence With a head full of fun, Then whatever be my name, My work is done.
Back in the days of cathode rays, Electron guns of RGB Would bring the colour to TV – Except they could get out of phase When untoward magnetic strays Would tamper with the purity.
And boy, were mine unpure ! With ev’ry colour out of sync, Where skies were green and trees were pink ! They told me there’s no easy cure – “But you’ll get used to it, I’m sure” I tried so hard to think.
I might have made it through, But for the glaring lack of red That ultimately screwed my head – Faces, lips, and roses too – Those cyan people made me blue As if the aliens had bred !
I thought I dug the mood To love all races in my sight – But skin-of-denim just ain’t right ! So I rejected modern dudes For old-time films and attitudes That showed the world in black and white.
There are five times as many Yankees Speaking English as the English, So who’s English do you think will win ? Whatever the linguistic tankies wish, We’re just a little fish – Perhaps it’s time to take it on the chin ? Or, to be overt (and probably incite your wrath) – You do the math !
Ow !, that hurt. So stark and ess-less on the page, Just stoking up my British rage – Yet kids today are fine to say it – They don’t care, it’s just a thing you say, Like missing out the pointless yoos And adding honest zees That they know we’ll criticize – They choose to do it anyway, These wize-guys.
So what’s my beef ? Am I so shaky in my self-belief I have to wave my flag At quickening American ? Does my inner Anglo-Saxon gag And want to ban their New-World-ness ? Well, yeah…I guess – We’ve traveled far, we dove right in We took the rout of least chagrin. But it’s all just arbitrary guff, And how long can I really bluff Until I must admit, their way makes sense ? Time to quit – don’t be a bore, For in this theater of war, My silent letters voice me no defense.
I know I have no chance tonite To tell the kids what they can say – Just as my teachers had no right To scold me for ‘okay’. But oh !, it hurts to hear my cherished forms Be cast away. Yet if the kids choose that instead of this, Well, who the hell am I then To dismiss them for their choice ?, As if I have a voice they’d listen to. So on they plow their furrow By their dollar, yard, and boro – For kids will always marvel at what’s noo.
I can assure you that it isn’t only Americans who can make wrath and math rhyme. There are so many other British voices besided RP, despite the OED’s attempts to pretend otherwise.
By the way, I can’t help thinking the last line looks less New York and more Scottish ! I suppose I could say ‘nu’ instead, but I think that will look even stranger.
At the meeting of the streets And the corners of the road, So grows an unexpected copse No seed has ever sowed. It sprouts up overnight Like a fungus on the make – This squatter on the pavement, Brings the Winter in its wake. Its trees have all blown over, And its needles all have shed To the gutters and the breezes, Until even these have fled. Then suddenly one morning We shall find the corner bare, Save the grey of frost and concrete And the chill upon the air.
Office chairs with starfish bases, Wobbly levers, sofa wheels – They never fit quite right, most cases – Either leaving swinging heels, Or bunched-up knees and hunched-down shoulders, Wimpy pistons full of slack. But still, a useful perch for folders Till the backside needs it back.
Think right, say right, Keep it careful, keep it kind – Keep a clean and healthy mind That wants no truck with spite. And yet, that inner voice Who always loves its little games, Who always knows the nasty names, Will whisper up its choice. It knows they’re wrong, and that’s the point, It’s daring us to shout them out Because they’re wrong and still have clout Because they’re out-of-joint. It’s bating us to say the word – It wants to make us take the blame For ev’ry hurtful hateful name We’ve ever heard. But these are not our whole – These shall not define or break us, Just stray thoughts and troublemakers – Yet we are in control. It only loathes itself, infact, But we can still refuse to sink – Let’s judge us not in what we think, But how we act.
I overindulged last month: Had far too many ideas. Now I’m a bloated, empty husk Who’s run right out of tears. My motor’s barely revving now, From weeks of crunching gears. My spark is fused, my wit is blown, I haven’t a thought to call my own.
Rhyming Couplets 