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.

 

 

Did Jesus Install Fitted Kitchens?

 

 

"Let me make one of my famous prophecies or predictions,

In 2000 years, everyone’s going to be into fitted kitchens.

I may have been born in a lowly stable,

In a manger, or a stall,

But I’m telling you,

2000 years hence nobody’s going to want a boring old table,

Not when they can have a huge island, granite topped.

Livery cupboards, dole cupboards, ambrys, hutches, all will have flopped,

No one will want anything made of oak,

Or free standing,

Nowt so queer as folk,

They’ll all be demanding

MDF fitted to a plastered wall,

Let me assure you Martha,

In the future, you’ll never be left to prepare a meal on your own,

There’ll be no hearth at all,

Only cooking machines,

And high-speed equipment for heating up baked beans.

Your guests will all be gathered in ‘the heart of the home’

Each distracted by the screen of his mobile phone,

And there’ll be underfloor heating, like the Romans have in Rome.

Even in houses protected by listing,

They’ll all be insisting,

On the modern and new.

Symmetrical cupboards lined up in a row.

Let me fit one for you, gratis, and as quid pro quo,

I’ll tell my friends about it and you'll let them come and see,

How easy life can be,

When a kitchen’s fully fitted

And with gadgets fully kitted

Nothing unbalanced or quirky or odd

Think of all the time they’ll have to come and follow me,

But hey, what do I know?

I’m just the son of God!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

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 inquiry, to find out what to do,

About the balls that people speak,

Which no one thinks is true.

 

“Search for Anything”

Salmon pink, celadon, Georgian grey,

Persimmon, burr elm, something to say,

Pithers stove, anthracite, happy childhood day,

R.P English accent making bad things go away,

Shaft of golden sunlight, dancing dust motes in the ray,

Recorders and then singing and afternoon play.

Scarlet scented lipstick, teenage walks across the stray,

Absorption in a novel, fields with bales of hay,

And yet if sweet nostalgia were something one could buy,

I’d be a bleak progressive and want the past to die. 

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 The Nature of Possessions

There is something in the nature of possessions

That leads others to believe they are evidence of obsessions,

They are the means of creating impressions,

In our own minds and in the minds of fantasy peers

Whose imagined, envious expressions

Bring great pleasure

As we like to see ourselves

As we believe jealous others see us.

But there’s more than that to the items we treasure

They are not merely the solid, physical means by which we provoke

Gasps of astonishment and praise from imaginary friends,

Whose green eyed emotions we hope to stoke

Nor are they solely the method by which we measure

Our worth, they aren’t just the means to shallow ends

Demonstrating our superiority over ordinary folk,

Nor evidence of some neurotic psychology

Rooted in chemistry or biology.

No, I think our collections and selections

And by implication our rejections

Are not weird manifestations of Freudian predilections,

Not much to do with childhood, or sexual repressions,

No, the obvious truth is still true,

They are maps and signposts and directions

Which as to our values and interests 

Attempt to give some sort of clue.