Fake News, Post Truth Rondeau

"Let's listen to the fake news, Dear,

Put Radio Four on, so we'll hear

Post truth, disguised as real fact

These so called experts can't half act.

One falls for each bizarre idea

These scoundrels sound so damned sincere,

That for my sanity I fear,

Until, with rude words and no tact,

The fake news

Gets You shouting back." Don't revere

The News, just question, get things clear.

And when it sounds like balls, react:

Write in, complain, hope they'll be sacked,

These frauds who would bring to your ear

The fake news.

Quantum Particles Of Soul

All those quantum bits of soul

That float about within the room,

Seem attracted to my brain,

And I am filled with others' thoughts,

Specks of trouble, doubt and gloom.

When darkness falls I feel old pain.

Perhaps they're really scraps of prayer

Fragments rent from their one whole

Because they were transmitted, sent 

When distress left minds in torment

Flashing signals in despair,

Aware they could not alter doom.

Perhaps I am a good receiver

As I'm not a true believer

Perhaps they settle in my mind

As particles of debris meant

To teach me I must have a care.

And yet I always wish to find

Some means to comfort, though I'm blind

And needs must grope towards the light,

Scraping at each built up layer

To find some truth in dark, black night.

Perhaps absorbing is sufficient

Perhaps once anchored, made secure,

I should not feel I must do more,

Should cease to strive to be efficient

Should be content merely to store

And let these atoms, reminiscent

Of man's sadness through all ages

Rest in peace, my head their tomb.

Hurtling Towards A Chaotic Breakfast

I make my way downstairs at speed,

At almost break-neck pace, indeed,

I stumble twice, but fleet 

Of foot, spurred on by greed,

Half sliding, in my stockinged feet,

My mind on 'eat all you can eat',

And how I've paid, have the receipt, 

And how I feel the need

To sample all, but not exceed

The bounds of decency, 

To feel more than just replete,

To feel the joy it is to feed,

Towards my breakfast I proceed.

I'll Take muesli to start with or maybe shredded wheat,

Eggs, and then black pudding 

(Thank you God for things that bleed)

I'll taste the rolls with poppy seed,

Spread with cheap jam, sickly sweet,

In contrast to the bacon and other salted meat,

Then take yoghurt, fruit, toast, kedgeree,

Drink orange juice as well as tea,

And when I'm done I'll go on deck,

Try not to slip and break my neck

And probably,

I'll barf my mixed up breakfast,

Straight out into the sea.

A GREEN CROSS CODE FOR THE COLD BLOODED

Said the lamprey to the toad,

When en route to your abode,

And trying to cross the road,

Always remember The Green Cross Code,

Look right, look left, look right again,

Then crawl like hell,

And pray you don’t explode.

A Kind Of Mantra For An Old Friend To Recite When She Feels The Urge To Join In With Her 'Close Knit' Community

All men are islands, other folk are hell!

Leave me be, I do not like mankind.

I only wish in solitude to dwell

Alone with my own intelligent mind.

Don't try and involve me, or you might find

I'm better than you at doing things which you do well

And you wouldn't want to feel you were getting left behind.

All men are islands, other folk are hell!

And you are just a shit, I've not lost my sense of smell!

This clod has washed away, it is not inclined

To be part of the main; it was when you put the boot in that it fell.

Leave me alone, I do not like mankind.

I have no desire to be mingled, intertwined.

I am Sufficient of myself and my reasoned thoughts can quell

Any efforts of yours to leave me feeling undermined.

I only wish in solitude to dwell.

And nothing you can say or do will ever impel

Me to join your crowd of carping fools, all blind

To faults of their own. I intend to spend a spell

Alone with my own intelligent mind.

You don' belong to me, there are no ties that bind.

I owe you absolutely nothing, I shall stay inside my shell.

I am a bitter lemon, so do not remove my rind,

And do not venture near me lest I yell

"All men are islands!"

(rondeau redouble)

Thought Occurring While Listening To The Curlew By Peter Warlock And Remembering He Was Brian Sewell's Father, Then Remembering Brian Sewell Is Dead.

Did he become
Tins of Pedigree Chum?

Paranoia: Something Went Wrong With This Page

Something went wrong with this page

So we decided to reload it.

You were reading something right wing, 

Some populist thing in a tabloid.

Something went wrong, you felt rage,

You thought criminal thoughts and imploded.

So we snatched away the cause,

Gave you a chance to avoid it,

Gave you a moment to pause,

Just to take a breath, count up to ten,

Collect your thoughts and remember 

There's no place for hate this September

Of 2016, on the web.

We gave you time to consider 

And to stop thinking like a pleb.

Something went wrong with this page,

Well not with this page per se,

But with your choice, your wanting to read it.

We think you were lead astray.

But you won't let it happen again.