Wednesday, 10 May 2017

2 am

The cat has no conception
Of the crime 'cultural appropriation',
He's howling and shouting as if he's Siamese.
Stalking the long corridor,
In my direction,
Testing acoustics he has tested before,
Caring nothing for my disapprobation,
His worms need feeding and he can't cope with his fleas.

Tuesday, 2 May 2017

The Loved One

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/2017/05/01/rise-live-stream-funeral-half-venues-can-now-broadcast-services/

Nearly 50% of Funeral Venues have the capacity to live stream ceremonies via the internet:

"Mr Joyboy has fixed up the camera in the corner,
Your loved one looks, so beautiful,
We've given him the beatific smile,
I'm sure every mourner,
Here, and those who can't attend, but dutiful
To the idea of "paying their last respects",
Watching online, will agree.

Some of Mr Joyboy's special effects:
Eg. the "scream" as the coffin enters the furnace, you'll see
Go down particularly well,
With our more youthful clientele.
While older mourners, the ones who still insist
On being an "in person attendee"  
Find it a bit upsetting,  who can resist
The temptation to turn a funeral into a scene
From a horror movie,
Especially when it's going to be seen, on screen?

For an extra fee
Mr Joyboy can arrange knocking
To come from the coffin, 
And one of the undertakers to rush up with a key
To try unlocking it
And letting your loved one free,
Only to be defeated,
As the coffin rushes towards the fire.
The inevitable end, can be filmed in slow motion
Then repeated,
To drive home the memory.


Of course we all aspire
To show our devotion 
To our loved one in ways that are dignified,
We don't want our relatives and friends to be mortified,
But movies are best with some kind of action.
Take advice from Mr Joyboy,
An expert in both film and funeral direction."


Monday, 1 May 2017

A Little Ditty For Mr Farron (to the well known hymn tune)

Jesus shall reign, where the sun don't shine,
For acts of buggery are quite divine,
If you want votes, forget your soul,
Declare you'd put your Roger into any old hole.

Monday, 10 April 2017

Some Kind Of Bower Bird Some Kind Of Silverback

Some Kind Of Bower Bird Some Kind Of Silverback

Behold my wonderful display
Of bright ideas and things to say 
I fill my bower, every day,
With all the latest takes on things
Arrange them in a pleasing way,
And show them off and spread my wings,
I know what's fact, what hearsay,
And all the complex games men play,
When to react or to delay,
I make my own moves carefully.


I have a truly vast array
Of knowledge, though not too much tact,
I like to balance and to weigh,
It seems impressive, and yet, to act,
When clever words are said and done,
Is what it is to be a man.


And so I often join the fray,
And beat my chest and grunt and shun
The cautious types who must be rogues.
I know that my tribe have a plan,
I can't now deal in shades of grey,
No time for pow-wows, dialogues,
My side do not have feet of clay,
We're strong, we're right and I, for one,
Must speak out strongly and inveigh
Against the other, vile clan.


I fill my bower, every day,
With bright ideas and things to say,
Because I really must convey
My intellectual prowess, 
For it truly helps to mask
The simpler motive for my task
In life, which I would only here confess,
Is just to punish, fight and prey.





Thursday, 6 April 2017

Some Form Of Umbrage



Some form of umbrage can always be taken,
And the small, perceived slight will always awaken
The mind to another small grudge, stored away,
Wrapped up with care, 
For a special occasion.
And the slighted are right, they are never mistaken,
And poke at their wounds all day
And dig in their heels and will not be shaken,
Enjoying the sense of grieved frustration,
Believing themselves alone and forsaken
By friends who might dare
To suggest that they are 
Victims of their own, 
Petty, imagination.




Monday, 3 April 2017

"The Road To Somewhere".



They shut the road through the woods
Thirty years ago
And didn't try to explain, 
why we wouldn't need it again,
Looking from afar, you would never know
It was there, the road through the woods.
Now the woods seem only trees.
The road's beneath the coppice and heath
And the thin anemones.
There is no keeper who sees
That there's aught worth keeping at all
He dismisses the place with ease,
"There was once a road through the woods."
Yet, if you enter the woods,
You will find it teeming with life
And people, walking, who say, 
That they see the road clear as day
A metalled surface on well trodden ground. 
There's a young man and his wife
And their children grouped around.
There are friendly neighbourhoods
Where people will welcome you, 
If you respect their way.
You might hear the beat of a horse's feet,
Or the swishing of skirts in the dew,
Steadily cantering through
As over the road to somewhere they go,
These people who perfectly know,
As you once perfectly knew,
The old lost road through the woods.

Saturday, 25 March 2017

The Cloud


This one's not filled with dreary rain,
This one is not like cotton wool,
This one is clear, invisible
And yet can easily be seen.
It is the great collective pool
Of thinking heads, which is our tool
Of choice, the indivisible
Whole, the merged, the well combined.
It has no centre, and no means
By which to shape its whole structure,
Yet each drop of human knowledge,
Each piece of wisdom from each mind
Furthers, changes, freshens, cleans.
Whole, made from sums of parts,
No rules in this richest college,
Just ideas meeting, blending,
Seamlessly and never ending.
Specialising and refining
Legitimising and defining.
The means by which we grow and aid
The growing of our fellow men,
And yet regarded with disdain,
Contempt:  it lends itself to trade,
The great resourceful, human brain.