Saturday, 30 May 2015
Friday, 29 May 2015
Thursday, 28 May 2015
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.
Sunday, 24 May 2015
Who says experience is there to teach
It's lessons can't pretend there's mystery
Involved when others say they've heard her preach
Too often in her ranting tones. She can't
Go on concluding that it's they who err.
There'd be too much coincidence. They want
Her to desist, and yet she must defer
The moment, saying that all will be well
Another time. But it is never so.
She takes every opportunity to tell
Her 'friends' they're wrong and they should really know
Much better. So they take their leave. But now
At last she's heard, and parting takes her bow.
Wednesday, 20 May 2015
'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
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.
In sunlight in the early spring
It seems as if it might just bring
A deeper, lasting, inner peace.
No traffic hum or birds that sing
Of future happiness or on the wing
Shout warning of some trouble overhead.
No news or music, beating in
Your head, no after thought to ring
Alarm bells. Only dead silence
And the wooly fleece
Friday, 8 May 2015
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.