INSPIRATION

 

 

INSPIRATION

The midnight muse does not wait130
For the lure of silver at someone’s gate
Nor the rattle of chains in rust-red splendour
As the moonlight beams on the night so tender.
The midnight muse has something strange to tell;
‘Silence is violence’
Say the damned in hell
To speak is to live not bound by chains
When an empty silence is all that remains

 

 

TOM T HALL – THE MAN WHO HATED FRECKLES

Love the irony!

lyrics

If I live forever I will not forget
The man who hated freckles that I met
He was absolute about it and his hate intensified
He said I hate them folks with freckles on their eyes.

I can’t stand them folks with freckles he would say
They’re tearing down the good old usa
I’ve never met a one who couldn’t dance
And they’ll steal your watermelons if they ever get a chance.

Oh, he hated every freckle that he saw
He said they should be shot down by the law
They oughta send them all back where they’re from
And he said would you let your daughter marry one.

He said I hate them folks with freckles in my sleep
They’re on welfare and their houses ain’t too neat
They moved in near some fair complected friends
And them freckled folks are running down the neighborhood we’re in.

Well, he’d see a kid with freckles and he cuss
Said because of them my children have the bus
We wouldn’t have the trouble we have seen
If it wasn’t for that Martin Luther Queen.

But the man who hated freckles had some friends
And they organized a band of freckle’s clan
The man who hated freckles may be sick
But as far as I’m concerned he was a stupid son of a…

 

THAT IS OUR EDEN’S SPRING, ONCE PROMISED by Ray Bradbury

THAT IS OUR EDEN’S SPRING, ONCE PROMISED

What I to apeman
And what then he to me?
I an apeman one day soon will seem to be
To those who, after us, look back from Mars
And they, in turn, mere beasts will seem
To those who reach the stars;
So apemen all, in cave, in frail tract-house,
On Moon, Red Planet, or some other place;
Yet similar dream, same heart, same soul,
Same blood, same face,
Rare beastmen all who move to save and place their pyres
From cavern mouth to world to interstellar fires.
We are the all, the universe, the one,
As such our fragile destiny is only now begun.
Our dreams then, are they grand or mad, depraved?
Do we say yes to Kazantzakis whose wild soul said:
God cries out to be saved?
Well then, we go to save Him, that seems sure,
With flesh and bone not strong, and heart not pure,
All maze and paradox our blood,
More lost than found,
We go to marry stranger flesh on some far burial ground
Where yet we will survive and, laughing, look on back
To where we started on a blind and frightful track
But made it through, and for no reason
Save it must be made, to rest us under trees
On planets in such galaxies as toss and lean
A most peculiar shade,
And sleep awhile, for some few million years,
To rise again, fresh washed in vernal rain
That is our Eden’s spring once promised,
Now repromised, to bring Lazarus
And our abiding legions forth,
Stoke new lamps with ancient funeral loam
To light cold abyss hearths for astronauts to hie them home
On highways vast and long and broad,
Thus saving what? Who’ll say salvation’s sum?
Why, thee and me, and they and them, and us and we…

And God

Ray Bradbury

MARKET PEOPLE

 

MARKET PEOPLE

‘What’s this one like then…Mel Gibson?’

‘No, that’s the one I’m seeing at the moment,

This one’s more like……’

Snatches of conversation, floating above the crowd,

The current ‘fella’ nicely dissected,

Clinical comparison, organ by organ.

And her a frayed blonde who has seen better days!

 

Other fragments drift by;

Where did you go last night?

That colour suits your complexion

And  ‘He’s got a nerve!’

Mingling with the echoes

Of the vegetable sellers shouting at themselves.

 

Drab Saturday, illuminated by the mile-long throng

Of animated faces

All jostling for prominence

In the belly of the snake.

There is a sameness about everything;

The dressed-up vendors stalls

And the off-the-peg people.

The faces merge;

At home on any shoulder they choose,

Yet missing none of the bargains

 

Who owns all those empty shells

That shuffle along in unison?

Never questioning what can’t be seen.

Is life just a taller pair of shoes

Or a new video machine?

And why are the plastic handbags

The dangling cuddly toys

And the multi coloured tracksuits

The only ones standing still long enough

To hear the preacher shouting out

That Jesus loves them?

 

 

THE SELFIE STICK – THE WAND OF NARCISSISM

My Writing Life

I POSTED THIS POEM BEFORE BUT WITH THE CONTINUED POPULARITY OF THE SELFIE STICK I THINK IT IS WORTH ANOTHER POST. (WITH CONTINUED APOLOGIES TO IAN DURY AND THE BLOCKHEADS)

THE WAND OF NARCISSISM

In the deserts of Sudan

And the gardens of Japan

From Milan to Yucatan

Every woman, every man

Hit me with your selfie stick
Hit me, hit me
hit me now you selfish prick
Hit me, hit me, hit me
Hit me with your stupid stick
Hit me slowly, hit me quick
Hit me, hit me, hit me

With your stupid fucking selfie stick

.

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LAST BREXIT TO ASYLIUM

LAST BREXIT TO ASYLIUM

There are no free lunches anymore

But there are food-banks galore

The last brexit to Asylium

Is the first exit on the right

Or maybe it’s the left

Because it is known that the left are bereft

Of ideas to be sure

And ideologies that can cure

The cultural emulsification

Of a once sane nation

We are all wailing in Christendom

Let’s have another referendum.

Dum-dum

Dum…dum

Dum

SUPERMARKET IN CALIFORNIA – Alan Ginsberg

My Writing Life

Allen Ginsberg, born in Newark, N.J., June 3, 1926, is an American poet and leading apostle of the beat generation.

Supermarket In California

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I
walked down the streets under the trees with a
headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went
into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your
enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families
shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the
avocados, babies in the tomatoes! – and you, Garcia Lorca,
what were you doing down by the watermelons?

I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber,
poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing
the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of…

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