Thursday, 27 August 2015

A New Kitchen Devil



The slightest pressure downwards
Of the index finger stretched
Along the top side of the blade.
The slightest movement of the hand:
Forwards, backwards and it falls, cleanly.
No time for bowing skills.
No time for sight in the mind's eye
Of my mother's capable arms,
Strong hands, wide-ended thumb,
Gripping, cutting finely
The stoneground, wholemeal, homemade, 
Hard-as-brick, brown, crusty loaf.
No time to recall the clean, firm sweep 
Of the butter knife scraping the primrose surface
In the 'right way', whose tiny serrations
Left cat-tongue corrugations,
So that one was only ever sure that is not what they were
By the purposefulness of their horizontal direction.
No time to think of the bow saw
And the saw horse, the wheelbarrow
Full of picked up wood, and the lessons 
In preserving strength, by using the whole length
Of the blade, letting it do the work.
Just, Hey Presto! a slab of soft,
Thickly buttered poppyseed filled
Machine baked, honey daubed,
Instant gratification of greed.

Saturday, 22 August 2015

Coming Home To Hear A Party in Full Swing.

I heard a doobie doobie do
And a tra la la,
I saw: my bedroom door ajar
A pair of cast off socks.
I heard the dub a dub and baa
Of a vocal beat box,
"Who are these strangers from a far
Whose irritating pop is vox
Who've broken in and picked my locks?"
I cried.

But "dabba, yabba doobie daa"
Was all the answer they replied.
And something in their tone implied
I really ought to mingle.

I handed round some canapés,
To doobie doo and doobie daa,
And very soon cast off my bra
While someone else got off their rocks,
Oh joy! what fun, oh fa la la,
What simultaneous joys these are
(As long as I don't catch the pox
Beside the catchy jingle)
From swinging with an itchy, scratchy,
Swingle singing single.

An Inferiority Complex Induced by Looking at The Mail Online.


I have never flashed a side boob,
And I fear I never will,
Though I may have flashed a nipple,
While a baby took its fill.

I have never flashed a side boob;
I'm not big enough to spill
Out of daring low cut gowns,
So there's no anticipatory thrill
As I "step out" on the street
Un-toned, un-honed, 
Small boned and neat,
And I find I needs must bolster
Each saggy little teat.

I have never flashed a side boob,
I have no embonpoint, that guides
The roving eye to cleavage:
Only hard flat chest divides.

I'm a small and saggy woman,
And though I look quite thin,
I have a droopy stomach and a fold
Of flab that hides
Beneath enormous knickers whose untold
Glory is their strength 
In holding back the tides
Of stretch marked skin.

I am boring, dull and old
Or over the hill,
(Small hummock or wold)
I'm not clever, never did the Rubik's Cube,
And yet I feel I really am a woman still,
And have woman's vanities and prides,
Though I've never flashed a side boob
(Never even worn a boob tube)
For my bosom's much too little to have sides.

Thursday, 6 August 2015

After Reading an Article Which Suggested Our Universe Was a Virtual Reality Computer Simulation.

To speculate upon the nature of the 'man'
Or group of 'men' who built our universe,
Is to test imagination. If their plan
Is that we should not know our makers, they're perverse.
For why create us with intelligence 
Sufficient in the end to find them out?
Unless discovery is an irrelevance,
Since knowing they exist can't bring about
Substantial change. The qualities imbued
In us by them, we think perhaps reflect
Such 'personalities' as they themselves have. 
It seems likely they aren't perfect,
They are not God, for built into their game
Is so much violence, we are one and the same.
And on that basis then we must proceed,
Assured that there's an error in their scheme,
(Knowing there is always one in ours.)
For we are not mere puppets, who succeed
Or fail according to their whim, because to dream
Of something better is also in our power
So we won't admit defeat, or easily resign,
Because determination is also ours, by design.



Wednesday, 5 August 2015

The Two of Us

The woman in the mirror looks more sane


Than the one which the selfie shows,


Who looks plain


Weird.  But if vanity is a form of insanity


(Which heaven knows


One might suppose,


Given the time they spend pointlessly preening


When they ought to be doing the cleaning)


Then one has to conclude, though it's sad,


That they are both  mad.

Inverse



Our freedom is not manifest in looks,
A man in jeans and tee shirt with tattoos
With shaven head, and pierced brow or nose
Is no less spied on, no less forced to bide by arbitrary rules,
Than his counterpart in suit and shirt and tie.
And yet he thinks the snook he cocks by turning on its head
The hangover of sumptuary law,
Is sufficient of itself to show he schools
His mind in ways of liberty.  
Fashion is a form of tyranny
And laughs at those who don't perceive the irony
Of conforming to a rebel's code of dress,
Believing as they do that they themselves
Are quite apart, beneath its reach and able to express
Their individuality.

And it's offered as a panacea for all ills
A hard crust dunked in laudanum to soothe a starving child
And embedded deep within it is the barb:
The idea that we are freer since we appear wild,
That we can portray
Liberty in what we wear,
Embody freedom in our choice of garb,
Blinds us to the truth. In trying to be fair
And put things right,
In trying to make amends for history,
In ignorance, not thinking of the consequences,
Only that which is sufficient to the day,
Such fools have rushed straight in,
And freedom has been trampled, crumbled away.

Middle aged Arm

A middle aged arm

Has no intrinsic charm

But despite each crinkle and wrinkle and fold,

It still manages to hold

That which the hand

Picks up, and

Despite its droopy and saggy appearance

It shows determination in its adherence

To the lifelong principle of not just giving up and randomly letting go

Of heavy objects, above the big toe:

Which is useful.