An Estate Agent Dreams Of His Ideal Client

 

The vendor’s getting on, the house is tired,

She thinks things are alright,

Because she had the place rewired,

Thirty years ago, you can tell she’s tight.

The house is sound, structurally maintained,

But nobody seems to have explained,

You need a bathroom for every bedroom,

To bring things up to the modern age,

A bog of one’s own is all the rage,

A big fat Yorkshire businessman,

Can’t be expected to rise in the gloom,

And walk down a corridor to move his bowels.

If it wasn’t for his wife, he’d use a bed pan,

Can’t really be arsed to go to the bog at all,

Let alone go wandering down the hall.

His wife loves an ensuite, with fluffy white towels,

In piles,

And she says she doesn’t mind hearing him straining,

Giving himself piles, as long as she’s certain

The toilet’s draining,

And the shower has a modern glass door,

And no curtain,

And a wet room floor.

So, the ornamental plasterwork, newly restored

Is going to have to go,

People are bored,

With that kind of look,

Out of a history book.

The conservation people won’t mind,

I’ll make sure of that, it’s who you know,

Been in the business 40 years or so.

 

 

 

 

 

STANCE

 

 

I resent the stance you have taken.

I feel utterly forsaken,

For all we have is stances,

Our carefully choreographed dances,

With which, round truth, we lightly trip,

Hoping never to stumble or slip,

“Revealing for all of the others to see”,

Just why it is they can’t trust you or me.

We pretend to resent the imperial past,

But you know we must never be honest, at last,

And admit that its over for good,

For how can our virtue be understood,

If it’s known that we’re powerless, alone?

Who can possibly know of our rage,

If we do not posture upon the ‘world’ stage?

From our offices at the council, in Burnley or Oldham or Colne.

 

Mouth Organ

 

I wish that I could lie,

Out of sight of cold blue sky,

Empty, cold,

Absent of mind,

Thinking no dull, adult thought,

Uncomprehending, dumb, untaught,

Still myself, boring, old,

But back in that place

 I used to find,

When as a child I sought

Comfort, satisfaction,

Numb and peaceful noise distraction.

I wish to transcend the daily grind,

And all that is stressful and fraught,

Flat on my back

On wide and ancient, deal boards,

Finding some untuneful rest,

Breathing reedy, metal chords,

Deep in my receptive chest.

 

 

A Government Review

 

People have been talking balls,

Government must review,

Make sure the balls they‘re talking,

Is really getting through,

For who would take much notice,

Of all the balls that’s spoken,

If no one from the government

Made a gesture, just a token,

And held a long enquiry, to find out what to do,

About the balls that people speak,

Which no one thinks is true.

 

The powers that be have “deemed”

The powers that be have deemed

Me capable of action

Of which I have never dreamed,

Or worse, of thinking thoughts,

Which seem to them to have seemed

So reprehensible

That I should be tried in the courts

Of their minds and judged

According to their new laws

Invented on purpose to cause

Me, them to have broken,

Merely by having spoken.

And now I am guilty as charged

To the gleeful satisfaction,

Of those for whom recent history

Is entirely shrouded in mystery.

On Delirium

Delirium’s effect upon the brain

Lasts far beyond the hour it is at hand,

It leaves a marker there, a madness stain,

Which ill effect we rarely understand.

It feels like strength to doubt the shifting sand,

We sense in this new state we’re deeply sane

And yet we’re cynical and now let nothing stand.

Delirium’s effect upon the brain

Means endless fighting, which becomes a drain,

Yet we can’t bear the world to be quite bland,

And argue day and night and so our pain

Lasts far beyond the hour it is at hand.

And now we seek for cures and then demand

Our loved ones also take up our disdain.

Delirium invades the peaceful land

It leaves a marker there, a madness stain,

A blood soaked soil where breeds a stronger strain

Of cynicism, sure that evil’s planned.

And how much evil does this world contain

Which ill effect we rarely understand?

Why is it the downtrodden who are damned

And those with power left to grasp and gain?

We cannot leave the flames of truth un-fanned,

And so we stoke the heat which we retain:

Delirium.

 

Not Trivial

 The dead can’t feel the warm wind from the south,

Across the skin that shivers not, yet feels

And sends a pleasant message to the mouth,

About the lovely time of year which then reveals

The shallow mind belonging to our flesh.

And yet how terrible to know no more

The warm wind on us, or the cold and fresh,

Then hear the mindless comments of each pore

Or follicle responding to the air,

By pouring out a little salty sweat

Or rising up and bristling a hair.

If we could know when we were dead, regret,

I think we might express it all together

In philosophical discussion of the weather. 

I Wish to Chat to A Mushroom

 

I wish to chat to a mushroom,

To tell it all my woes,

I’d confide in its ancient wisdom,

And ask it what it knows.

But I fear it would not understand me,

Would gossip and tell of my fears,

Through its endless mycelium channels

That sprout from its mushroom toes.

I wish to chat to a mushroom,

I wish it would lend me its ears,

But when you confide in a toadstool

Who knows where your secret goes?

I suspect they are less dependable,

Than all the whisperin’ grass,

And their thoughts would be depressing,

And felt as a great morass,

Of damp and dark and breaking down

And a musty smell in the nose.

For although it’s a fruiting body,

It’s only the bit that shows,

And the rest of it’s complex and murky,

And it prattles away as it grows.

 

Will it add value, or make it more saleable?

Were I to acquire

A stuffed pike, 

Would it add value,

If I put it

In the downstairs loo?

Is it the sort of thing people like? 

Would it make people aspire,

To a certain lifestyle,

Or put people off, 

Because it’s vile? 

I don’t mean actually in the bog,

Of course,

I mean on top of the chiffonier,

To hide a scratch in the veneer.

Would people think 

I’m a huntin’ shootin’ and fishin’ toff,

All about horse,

And dog,

Or a liar?

Would it distract from the chip in the tile,

Above the sink?

What about a crystal chandelier,

Or two,

Are they more tarty than arty?

Or a pair of fauteuils, Louis Quinze or Seize,

Either side of the fire,

Would that make it seem like a des. res.?

Or should one go the whole hog,

A gilt salon suite,

Would it go with a club fender?

Would that show

I was the right kind of vendor?

Someone cultured, in the know?

Would such things complete

The impression

That this is a home of good taste,

And each possession

Treasured, inherited, long ago?

And could I then sell with Inigo? 

 

In The Tedium of a Metric Afternoon

 

I had the leisure,

To measure for pleasure,

The nature of an afternoon,

Of warm and scented, honeyed June,

When all was peace, yet nothing still,

To calculate the sublime,

In time and also in ‘mil’.

 

I felt the need, when I heard

The song of a garden bird,

There was nothing to gain

By use of the word,

And so reduced it to the absurd,

And measured it’s voice

And the thrill of its trill

With great precision and pain.

 

And afterwards knew,

That nothing was true,

Which existed in fragments alone,

But on a hunch

After eating lunch,

It occurred,

That I understood,

At the level of instinct and bone,

A truth that pertained in both garden and wood:

Beauty and flowers and finches,

Should always be measured in inches.

 

The Solid Silver Train

 

Why is there no train for my sexual preference?

The train for father and mother,

30 years man and wife?

Where is the train that only runs about every 6 weeks,

Where the passengers don’t spank each other,

Where nobody speaks,

At all,

Let alone makes any reference

To what’s occurring?

But instead just enjoy the ride,

Without declaring their pride,

As a brief escape from everyday life.

And at the end of the journey,

Thank each other.

Trust the Psychopaths

Trust the Psychopaths

Trust the science, trust the psychopathology,

The two go hand in hand,

Commit yourself, to what we declare is biology.

Place your faith in something you cannot understand,

You know we materialists would never demand

You should place your faith in an ideology,

We only approve of the concrete, mixed with shifting sand.

Trust the science, trust the psychopathology

Do as you’re told in obedience to our psychology.

Do not make any enquiry, do as we command.

We’ve considered economics and epidemiology,

The two go hand in hand

When weighing up what’s best, and so we’ve planned.

And what he have concluded, bearing in mind sociology,

Is you must all shut up and be shut up, this is the law of the land.

Commit yourself, to what we declare is biology.

We have your best interests at heart, and therefore make no apology

For any negative effects, we have to take a stand.

Caring bullying is not contradiction, self evidently not tautology.

Place your faith in something you cannot understand.

We intend to grab power and expand

The hold we have granted ourselves. Don’t cling to Psephology

All parties think alike, our Covid coalition is beautifully grand.

We know of what we speak, we’re experts in scatology

Trust The Science. 

A Chorus of Twittering

 

Everything is bollocks,

Everything is wrong,

Everything is worse

Than described in your song.

Everything is dreadful,

Here’s chapter and verse,

Go from here and read it 

Then come back and rehearse

The new exciting arguments,

To show that you belong,

Amongst us true extremists,

Then come and sing along:

Everything is bollocks,

Everything is wrong,

Everything you thought before,

Was rudimentary stuff,

And everything the plebs think,

Is silly, mindless guff,

Come over here and join us,

If you’re hard enough. 

On Polyamory Among Edible Insects, inspired by Mary Harrington ; )

 

Don’t call me a f*ggot,

Said the meal worm maggot,

It’s a term of abuse and hate,

I am merely a mealy grub,

Whose fate

Is to become a meal or grub,

On a plate,

But before that date,

I wish to satiate,

Some appetites of my own,

I’ve been feeling polyamorous,

And although I am not very glamorous,

I’ve arranged some wonderful orgies,

For some of my fellow bugs,

And a group of handsome young slugs

A chance to celebrate

Before anyone gorges

Themselves on us,

And it’s all very much too late.

 

Jackdaw Dance

I was finding sticks beneath ancient trees,

In the shady copse at the edge of the lawn,

To mark the dahlias, still in bloom,

But whose death by frost, would come quite soon, 

Though they blasted out peach and tropical coral,

Mexican vibrancy midst the gloom,

Orange and Barbie and bubble gum heat,

And greenish whites and pale primrose yellows, 

Ill fitting October’s afternoon,

In an English garden nine hundred years old,

Scented with compost and old leaf mould,

When I saw in the deep, azure sky above

A crowd of corvids speaking of love.

And I had a sensation I’d had before,

Of ancient peace and resistless calm,

And an overwhelming hippyish sense,

Almost embarrassing, hard to ignore,

Of oneness with the world around,

And a sense of a time before I was born.

And the jackdaws circling over head,

Neither cawed, nor carped, but crooned instead,

Like purring doves, or cats making greeting

And they gossiped and nattered, but seemed quite moral

In judgements they passed on their corvid fellows,
As they swirled in the air and floated and played,

Though they lazily mobbed a buzzard above them.

And the noise which they made was a gentle sound,

And the gentleness of it filled my head

And entered my soul and there remained,

Though the moment in relative terms was fleeting,

I knew the birds’ language and felt I loved them,

And that this pure love was greater by far,

Than the height of the sky as I lay on the ground,
Was greater than ever could be contained,
Or described or by poetry be conveyed,

So I listened to pure, cerulean blue,

Which danced with the birds, 

To a lost tune I knew.  

conservative Longings

If only there were something new to think,

it’s not just current thought is simply stale,

but novelty itself can’t satiate.

Ten thousand snowdrops spread beneath the trees.

A deer in the reedy moat has stopped to drink.

The still huge, waning moon is turning pale,

but beauty somehow can’t elucidate.

I must rely on what has gone before

and comprehend that all things interlink.

And all the ancient wisdom must prevail.

And yet I crave some new scent on the breeze,

that might intrigue before it irritate,

and might enthuse before it starts to bore,

might sweep me to the edge and on the brink

of some great breakthrough let me there exhale

and feel the peace of knowing it’s my fate

and duty not to plough ahead, but wait.

On hearing the 77th Brigade Were Involved in Monitoring On Line Chat

A sad sequel to Tom Lehrer's 'So Long, Mom'

(I think you have to sing it to get the metre)

 

So long ma,

the truth is so bizarre,

You won’t think much of me.

Although I’m a soldier,

The loonies all told ya’

Speech is not free,

And that’s down to me.

 

We can’t attack ‘em frontally,

when they get all disgruntley

And spell out in their punditry,

The freedoms we have lost,

No need for you to read descriptions,

Of the agony and human cost.

Little Johnny Jones

He was a British Tommy

And no loser Commie

Was he. He was mighty scared

When he heard lockdown declared

He wouldn’t have dared

To be free

 

And yet he did admit that

He monitored online chat:

So long Ma,

The truth is so bizarre,

You won’t think much of me,

Though I clean the web

I protect every pleb,

Or else they might be,

Confused, don’t you see?

Remember Mater,

The truth will come out later,

I worked for a dictator,

But try to smile somehow,

The truth’s so weird

'Twill be disappeared

An hour and a half from now

 

New Church Ladies

The new church ladies, much the same

As those well known to Barbara Pym,

They know the words of each naff hymn,

In praise of what is trans or BAME.

Their hair is straight, not permed or rinsed,

Although it’s still a shade of blue,

It’s of a deeper, harsher hue,

To match their latest large tattoo.

Their faith is strong, they are convinced,

They’re never wrong nor yet mistaken.

They genuflect and take the knee,

Debate the new theology,

Know when to sneer and victim blame,

And when to praise and feel no shame.

And ‘some form of umbrage can always be taken’.

If others suffer, they are wrong,

Nothing to see now, move along,

These are rules, no exemption,

They do not care what cares you face,

Those not with them do not belong.

It must be so, they have a song,

That tells of what a lovely place

The world will be,

When there’s no trace

Of Western culture, swept aside,

In one last act of suicide,

Which yet will not be thought redemption,

New Church Ladies don’t do Grace.