By my beard and sandals shall you know me,
By the bushy nature of my facial hair
So natural, God given and gingery.
You see my whiskers and can never doubt me,
You know that I'm a man and not some tranny,
(Though you sense that if I met one I'd show pity.)
You see me and think God or Karl Marx?
And then we speak and you're left none the wiser.
In all things it's my Bishop who's adviser,
And he wants me to reach out, but not cause sparks,
To the followers of Islam in my parish
So I grew this bush of bright and burning copper,
Not to hide my light or His but to establish
A rapport with other men who preach
The word of God or Allah,
And I find that those who love death metal,
Can relate, and we discuss Valhalla.
And young hipsters, though they concentrate on looking cool,
Thinking mostly of themselves, still yet respect,
This most masculine example of our quirky English sect.
Sunday, 28 February 2016
All that is left in my head,
Is this stream of song,
This endless melody.
There are shadowy words which cannot be said
Unless they are part of the liturgy,
The meaningless chant I repeat all day long,
And the songs are from somebody's childhood,
Though I'm not really sure it was mine.
They sometimes seem rude, sometimes silly,
And sometimes they're wobbly and wrong.
But most have an inherent structure
And exist in a world of their own,
And once I begin them, I sing them
And feel that I'm not quite alone,
As if there's a woman inside me,
That wishes to maintain some order
Who bustles about and trots these things out
Always wanting someone to applaud her.
There are only daft songs in my head
And sometimes I sing them in bed
And wake up the others, who scream.
And the tunes are so pretty
The words are so witty,
I sometimes believe it's a dream.
But the night nurse bursts in and makes nightmares,
And the songs become sorrowful sobbing,
And the tunes become minor, descending
Into treacle black fear, never ending,
That I am quite mad and I'm dying;
And my mind won't come right,
Till my crying,
Turns once again into singing.
Sunday, 21 February 2016
I have gaffer taped my nipples
Put a gas mask on my face
I'm going on a protest,
This idea is a disgrace.
In fact it is so dreadful
I shall only wear lace knickers,
And shall really wave my knockers,
As I cause some major ripples
Speaking loudly of how vile it is:
I'll really make my case.
And the whole world will remember
This dreary day in late December
When I gaffer taped my nipples,
Put a gas mask on my face.
For I heard some statisticians
Say attention almost triples
When statements emphasised by bosoms
Are heard and seen about a place.
Although the cold so nearly cripples
What with joggling and jiggles
To the tunes of folk musicians,
(Penny whistles, flutes with fipples)
(Penny whistles, flutes with fipples)
I shall make my point and giggles
Will not be heard, nor smirking seen:
For a girl who shouts and wiggles
About issues, not small niggles,
Is a force of nature, serious and green.
Tuesday, 9 February 2016
How fair this spot,
This tatty arm chair by the fire,
Where music warms and calms,
And where desire, expressed in melody
And graceful, peaceful, arching phrase,
Becomes a thing of abstract beauty,
And the days of endless rain and biting wind
Have no effect at all upon the mind.
How exquisite is the hour,
Spent where the lake lies blue
And songs of love and happiness
Seem dreams which might come true.
Monday, 1 February 2016
So open minded that their brains fell out
And that was years ago.
Now they make do with a little rind
A small amount of pith,
That clings to the inside
Of the skull,
And still their heads are open wide,
And still they sense that they know best
(As they cannot think)
Because they believe in the myth
That they are 'liberal'.
And still they find
Others who agree
And reinforce their view
Informed by nought but emptiness,
A space of air
Beneath the hair,
A vacuum where
There should be mind.