Monday, 27 April 2015

For my Robot Vacuum Who Seems So Human


I cannot help but love the way you run,
Knowing that you're growing weak and needs must.
You change your tune declaring that your done,
There'll be no more cross hatching, sucking dust.
No more negotiating wooden legs,
No more turning round in awkward places,
No more eating up the ash or spilt dregs
Of cocoa dried on carpet, no traces
Of the dog which have not been already
Rolled upon, will be visited again.
It's time to recharge, so you keep a steady
Course across the floor, almost trotting, then
Reverse your curved black arse, slowly nudging,
Back to base, tired from your day of drudging.

Saturday, 25 April 2015

Like a Georgian Secretaire I never owned.

I loved you once inside my obsessed mind,
I thought of you in secret and I dwelt
In happiness for moments. Yet I find
The feelings have dispersed as if not felt
By me, but by some different me I knew,
We had some vague acquaintance, but now
I don't know her at all.  And yet it's true
I did.  And so you're added to the file of how
I made myself the way I am today,
Along with Prunus Mume, Crepe de Chine,
Burr walnut and the dog, that is to say
Part of that list. I don't think that it's mean;
It makes a fantasy seem real, understood,
Thought of with plants and clothes and types of wood.

Imperialism is Dead: Long Live Imperialism!

Our aging population has a need;
Through immigration then we must expand.
Because we cannot satiate our greed
We must employ more people on the land.
We know that none born here will bear a hand
In picking produce or in planting seed.
Yet really you should try to understand:
Our aging population has a need.
And so too does our youthful one, indeed
Its needs are greater still, so they demand
Support, their sort can't bend to pick a weed;
Through immigration then we must expand.
We have to grow and so we must command
Our former slaves to come and work again, succeed
In building our economy. Our visions must be grand,
Because we cannot satiate our greed.
We cannot stop to think but only plead
Our case in terms of kindness and make sure to reprimand
Those ignoramuses who pay no heed.
We must employ more people on the land
And in our factories and hospitals and take a stand
Of righteousness, yet not profess we're willing to proceed
In stealing from the poor in every war torn land
The very source of their own future wealth, in order to feed
Our aging population.

Tuesday, 21 April 2015

Fasciation Fascination

Fasciation fascination,
An odd obsession
With the doubling and duplication
Of stems and stalks.
This fixation, might lead to frustration
For one's long suffering Alsation
On country walks,
For a visual demonstration
Of the concept of conflation
Is not a thing a dog has any inclination
To comprehend. And the natural limitation
Of the intelligence of the breed,
Though it is greater than that of any Dalmation,
Means it can't understand your lengthy explanation,
As you bend, to pick a weed,
And has no interest in your little talks.



Tuesday, 14 April 2015

'Authentic Music'

If music be the food of love
Then let it be 'authentic'!
For what is love? A passing mood,
Is wilderness romantic?
Let music fit the rules of love
Form needn't be archaic
And there is something more humane
In those who are pedantic.
I know you think that I'm in jest,
And really quite sarcastic
But love must pass a lifetime's test
And those who are erratic
And play their tunes how e'er they please
Tend to the obscurantic.
'If music be the food of love'
Then that which is dramatic
Might taste like nectar, sweet, divine,
So one might feel ecstatic
But who can live with self assured,
Big headed, autocratic?
And if one tends at all oneself
Towards the mad eccentric,
Then one must shun the lunatic
Whose tunes are anarchistic.
'If music be the food of love'
Then let it be 'authentic'
And play your ornaments with care,
Attend well to your trills
For love's worth more than sudden thrills,
Dependable trumps frantic.






Monday, 13 April 2015

Spring Garden

The sloe white, snow white blossom
At the bottom, in the distance through a gap
In the Acer, growing greener with the rising of the sap
Is in contrast with the vulgar brightness
Of Pierris 'Forest Flame'
Which is gaudy, crude and hideous and hasn't any shame.

Monday, 6 April 2015

The High Ground of the Moral Relativist

I'm the king of the castle, my dirty rascal friend,
I shan't require you to leave, nor even recommend
You take a bath. I don't require you to change,
I love to pity and indulge you. I will rearrange
The state's affairs in order to allow you
To carry on just as you are,
For you are just a speck of dust
And I'm the brightest star.
Let me do as I'd be done by,
I shan't cast the first stone,
Let me show your immorality
Isn't yours alone:
It belongs to those who'd judge you,
To those who do not see
That chastising, urging caution
Is deleterious to me.
For you are just a speck of dust
And I'm the brightest star
My beams more radiant in proportion
To the shitty thing you are.

Saturday, 4 April 2015

Second Hand Geography Revision

A man who sounds quite dull like 'Henry's Cat'
Presents a talk on continental drift
He speaks of folds and napes and things like that
Though sadly, I don't always understand. He speaks of rift,
Valleys between plates and oceans; I see swathes of thrift
On cliff tops where the ground is flat,
And crowds of screaming gulls, a shrieking swift.
A man who sounds quite dull like 'Henry's Cat'.
Speaks of things volcanic, has the names off pat
Of different sorts; I lack the gift
Or knack to hold them in my mind.  A boring prat
Presents a talk on 'Continental drift'
Designed to hypnotize and lift
Imagination where it flies, in lava bursts of brilliance (éclat?)
I feel the ground shift.
He speaks of folds and napes and things like that.
I see the fabric of the earth become a plait
First regular and then gone quite adrift.
More explanations follow, and the children chat
Though sadly I don't always understand.  He speaks of rift:
I think of lives falling apart but give short shrift
To those who feel pity for themselves and swat
Away this turn of thought for I must sift
Out nonsense, yet I'm nodding off: a man talks through his hat,
A man who sounds quite dull.