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A Compromise

A Compromise

“The asteroid Vesta was once a planet — and was demoted with little fanfare. (NASA/JPL-Caltech/UCAL/MPS/DLR/IDA)”

On those increasingly rare occasions

When I feel that the person I love and want most is capable of loving me

Then I find that that hopeful thought leads me to a happy day

A day when I might meet people gladly

With a lively interest in what they may have to say

And they, sensing that love inside me, respond in a natural and comfortable way.


But if that day is not today,

If my poor little Vesta is not the planet I want her to be

Gleaming brightly with possibility,

Seems only to be another icy rock

That wants to fall away and be lost

Then my spirit is empty and my heart is locked.


I plod on along the grim and endless seeming path

That one has to follow, simply trying to survive,

Filling the void with consumer junk and light entertainments

Responding to every dubious offer or command from above

As though it were some abstract or obscurely proffered form of love,

Until I get bored and critical, waiting for my turn to disappear.


If, now that the guiding star of my universe has got herself lost,

I am to go about again with some semblance of pride

Not shrinking away from every other passer by, expecting rejection,

Or biting their heads off, so angry am I at their indifference,

Then I need to find some compromise

A change of heart and mind that I can steer by.


I shall tell myself this, though she cannot be

As close to me as I would want her to be,

We are still connected in some way;

The lines of love that we have shared

May disconnect, snap away in places, grow very thin

But they remain, bright as ever, for all to see


Reflecting a certain gleam, in her face as well as mine

And my poor lost Vesta will not be too cold, though so very far away,


Getting Game

This can’t be true but it might be

A woman doesn’t mind your loving her

She just doesn’t want to be bothered by it

Therefore, it’s a good thing if she ignores you

lt means you haven’t upset her poise

And her very poise is what you fell in love with, isn’t it,

Her poise and grace and loveliness in general?


Wanting to rattle that is understandable

But you can’t rattle at once and all the time

Like a baby demanding attention

Pulling on her clothes and getting on her nerves!

You’ll be rattling each other soon enough

So be a grownup, be patient, enjoy the show but remember

You may think she’s ignoring you

But she’ll be watching you like a hawk

A hawk with talons and wings

Ready to scratch your eyes out or fly away

The moment you displease her.


Still, don’t worry about that

This is supposed to be fun

So shut up thinking for a while

And enjoy her while you can.

It starts by keeping a Deadpan Face

I hate women, why are they so horrible to men?

It’s a game, that’s why, a game that a person gets in

A game which can be amusing and even beautiful

Until the spirit of competition sets in

And what was a simple love game becomes something grim

Because of a point hit home too hard

Or too bloody often for her or him.


I hate men, why are they so horrible to women?

Because excitement can be hard to handle

So we shield ourselves with a dull routine

Until we fly into some stupidly violent passion;

And passion almost always trumps compassion.

It’s a wonder any double act can stay together very long

But we like them, and should applaud them often, to keep them going strong.

Double History.

First post on Rotten Tomatoes! Where to next – IMDB, BFI, Wikipedia?

Thumbs or Fags

Sucking my thumb was the second worst habit of my infancy,

The worst being scrupulously picking my nose but then eating the bogey

The texture of which I mulled on to the point of declaring that certain balls of snot

Tasted to me like strawberry.

I developed a strong stomach but damaged the vital filters of my nose.

Ask your doctor if you don’t know what makes a boy suck his thumb

A stubby pink cork to stopper his mouth, back and shoulders down,

Sticking that digit into his childish gob, completing an inwardly curled body shape,

His lips clinging on, his suction drawing him to the warmth of his own hand

A pathetic imitation of a comfortably unborn foetus.

I was very young, though to be truthful never really youthful,

Less than ten years old, or eleven at most

(Before more mature distractions such as Catwoman came along),

Not smiling for the school photo in case I would show buck teeth

The visible evidence of my hours on the thumb.

I knew that my bad habits could

Have a bad effect on the structure of my personal architecture

The verbal proof of my thumb sucking youth

Great difficulty pronouncing certain combinations of letters,

Important phrases such as “the form of the verb”

So smoking seemed a better comfort and a step up,

Stood up straight, elegantly posing with my phallic fag

Facing this noir world through artful clouds of smoke

Just like in the movies, a real man like Clint or Bogey

Fit to face the Dietrichs and tough guys, the late trains and missed planes

Refusing a blindfold but taking a drag on yet another ciggie

Marking the time and each missed chance butt by dirty butt

Knowing the bad effects, but seeing poisoning myself as an act of defiance.

And so I remain aware of both my silhouette and of the scraps of or from myself

That I deposit, drop, flick at the world to hide or establish a trace of my presence

Trying to create a certain effect, but all too aware of the effect I am in fact creating,

Too much time spent under low ceilings, consuming my own shoddy substance

Not enough understanding the difference that good architecture can make,

To structure the material we’ve been given,

Incorparate it into a greater design

Allow the air to move freely, create a door we can open easily.

[Written in response to this:

My idea being to show how the way one interacts with materials from one’s own body may effect its ‘architecture’.]

Comet or Meteor?

Comets or meteors?

Perhaps they’re like rooks and crows

“Where there’s a rook there’s a crow

“Where there’s crows there’s rooks”

To be one amongst a shower, a storm of meteors

Hurtling through the emptiness of infinity

Protected by the confidence of knowing

That we and our equally frenzied fellow travellers

However far we hurl ourselves

Flashing by through all the vastness

Looking tiny and bright like a fireside’s sparks

Consumed in a stampede, burning up and soon to be lost

Are in fact racing along a familiar orbit

That could last as long as a million years

Which all too soon will pull us back to where we’ve been

A familiar sight, overlooking what we’ve already seen

Or to be a lonely comet

Deserting the pack, distracted by some new attraction

Sampling a novel atmosphere, hardly aware

Of the flames gathering round

Till the grip that was a comfort

That was such a pleasure to be caught by

Loses its interest or changes its intent

Returning the wanderer to the emptiness

Or turning a journey of exploration

Into a pitiful conflagration

With a final pathetic fall

Messy and destructive to all

That witness the meaningless call

Of that misguided journey’s concluding bump.

Well, I don’t know if this is good science

And hope not to be subject to such violence

Shooting stars may enjoy applause from those below

But I’ll see it all from here, and adore the moon’s glow.

What’s in a Name

My name is Bond, James Bond

My name is Brown, James Brown

My name is Stewart, James Stewart, aw, Jimmy Stewart

My name is James, Henry James

My name is James, Etta James

My name is Joyce, James Joyce

My name is, my name is

Hello James, my name is M, Eminem

Mmm, M & Ms

My name is Goodman, John Goodman

But now I’ve said that

You’re probably thinking of someone else

As am I, and her name is…

But that’s another story.

So, what name do you go by?

In what memorable and endearing way

Do you introduce yourself, or others introduce you,

Or are you one who avoids introductions and just is?

More where that came from

The probability of probability being probable

Is probably less probable than you think

The coincidence of two coincidences coincidentally coinciding

Is considerably less considerable than you may consider.

The incredible credulity of the credulous is credited

With creating creative creations by the creative

But the concept of conceptual conception is a misconception

Formed in the formative years by a formation of formidable formulas

Forming a structure consisting of consistently, constrictingly strict instructions.

Beginning, then, where I began, I have begun to begin

Boasting to boost the best and best the best of the boastful

And so, toasting the tasteful and taking a taste of tactfully tested toadstool

I proceed down the passage of the past’s impassioned impressions

Aimlessly ambling at an, admittedly, ambivelently amiable pace

Five Friends of my Mother

The woman who flirted with her son

To stop him flirting

The woman who fought the devil

Battling smack before the crack attack

The woman who tended a garden

Keeping the quarry at bay

That shouting woman who taught me to read

All words but necessary, whose name I forget

And Mrs Bellamy, who cleaned up our flat

Until it got messed up again by her daughter Pat

These five friends of my mother

Are sisters she never met.

The Nation

Perhaps, a hundred years from now, in 2115

We shall be remembered as

“That brave, lost generation

Whose lives were marked and sacrificed for…”

Not a great global war

Like the one that, a hundred years before,

Reaped the finest of 1915

The lives of this generation are now being taken

By the terrible conflicts of 2015,

Made to give their lives to

“the realites of the current economic situation”

In defence of the nation

The nation, the nation, the nation

Is it a national disgrace?

Is it egg all over the face

Of a nation that once held a peculiar grace?

All to extend the boundaries

Of the sphere of influence

Of those who were too influential already

Too boorish in trumpeting their own

In some ways noble version of the values of the nation.

However, 2015, in this nation at least

Is an election year, one that will be a great test

Of this nation’s mind and spirit,

Will it be a wonderful new start

When this nation comes out of this wicked spell and

Finds its presently troubled, naturally much more affable heart?

Will the people’s choices save this, our nation

Must it wallow in the sludge of drudgery,

Forever trading wounds in a stinging storm of petty debate,

Or can this nation be saved before it’s too late?

The nation, the nation, the nation

Is it a national disgrace?

Is it egg all over the face

Of a nation that once held a peculiar grace?

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