Saturday, 30 May 2015

Friday, 29 May 2015

Oh Words...

Oh words how you have been abused
By people who are not amused
To find that you are small and plain
When they are trying to explain
Their own significance at length.

They do not see that there is strength
In shortness  or in essence.
They'd rather reach their own senescence
Going on.  And on.  And when
They reach the end 
They needs must then begin again,
Though not in Anglo Saxon.

The dialectical exchange 
Between two sides they must arrange,
In language, latin based and long,
And needs must shake up common sense,
Which, being common, must be wrong.

Thursday, 28 May 2015

Permanently Deleted

I've un-friended my muse
So this is the end,
I've un-friended my muse
And now I'm alone,
I dumped her by tablet
And mobile phone
So now I must lie in the bed I have made,
I can't moan.
I have cut myself off
And betrayed those I love
As I can't pretend
That I'm formed from stone
So feel nothing at all,
And don't give a damn,
When others object to the way that I am.

I am so teenage in my dreams 
I've cut my nose off in my schemes
To spite my face, or yours.
I think of how you'll all react,
Knowing that I've gone,
For good
Because of your great lack of tact.
Because at last I've understood
It can't always be you that's wrong
But I cannot retract.

Wednesday, 20 May 2015

Sugar Words

'Judge Brownlie held that what the defendants were asked to do did not require them to support, promote or endorse any viewpoint.'

I'll write in sugar, always now, for I can state
Whatever vile idea comes to mind,
And say I am fulfilling a commission.
For icing cakes is not expressing hate,
To ice a cake does not require endorsement of a sentiment.
This is the law as now it stands in fact
The medium of sugar is unique,
It renders language meaningless; too late
To argue that the words have meaning to the reader,
To write in sugar is a neutral act.

Monday, 18 May 2015

The Middle Aged Man In Lycra Song.

I'm married to a middle aged man in Lycra,
Although he doesn't wear it  much around the house
As it's really not so fetching,
In a man who's quite knock kneed,
Though from a distance it's dramatic,
And looks wonderful at speed.
For it's shiny blue and stretching
Every which way that it can,
And it tends to get all static,
(Though not like a caravan)
Nor yet is he acrobatic
But it makes a crackling sound,
When his stuff he is a strutting
Which is something that I've found
Can be really quite off putting
So I don't know where I am,
As he rubs it up against my Harris tweed.

Friday, 8 May 2015

Cutting Edge,

His work was at the 'cutting edge,'
It severed heads, and left them lying in the hedge
Or on the marsh among the sedge,
Where people stopped to wonder at the round and boggy veg.
It left them scattered o'er the plain,
And people never felt the same again
Knowing of the dreadful pain
Was suffered by the men who listened to the new refrain,
The music at the 'cutting edge'.
And so I raise a pledge:
I'll drive nasty sort of wedge
Between the cheeks of those who dredge
The dregs and use this phrase.
Every bird must fledge,
But save us from the cutting edge, if praise
Is short in coming then restrain
Your use of cliché. If music slices, slashes, cuts,
The chances are it's nuts.