The Social Contract
The Social Contract is unsigned,
The parties to it ill-defined,
Its place in the collective mind
More enshrouded than enshrined;
And though its parts are intertwined,
When circumstances are not kind
It may unravel, may unwind,
Leaving mere, stray strands behind,
Strands not easily recombined.
The Last Trace of Eden
There’s many a creationist
Counter-intuitively
Gouging the creation,
Gradually degrading it,
As if intent upon eradicating
The very last trace of Eden
From it.
A Feeling of Sinking
Atop the mast
Of our dauntless ship
Flew the frail flag of freedom;
But with such a blast
The wind did rip
That our flag was rent
And down we went
To the doom of our under-the-sea-dom.
…
Really Unreal
What IS this?
You want bliss?
Don’t you know it can be fatal?
And besides, it isn’t nice
So get wise
Learn the list of antidotes
And don’t tear the tissue
Of unlovely little lies
Still pondering the issue?
Well, it’s this way
Here’s how the land lies:
Aspirations are always asymptotes
Paradise is yonder
And yonder it’ll stay
To Whom It May Concern (i)
Behold and lo
In the church
Beneath the spire
Many a cheat
Many a liar
But pious as an oak is stout
None entertaining any doubt
That prayer will get ‘em
As high as heaven
And good old God
Will let ‘em in
In humble bluff
And grumble gruff
Complaining
‘The gift of life is not enough!’
To Whom It May Concern (ii)
It may be fun to be a mystic
Suitably robed and ritualistic
Forever is NOW
The many are ONE
Goes without saying in certain places …
But any old mystic who knows his stuff
Who sees the SELF in other faces
Knows that nirvana
Is nothing-like enough …
That among the human
And its mammalian ilk
A baby needs its mother’s milk
Hand-me-down Happiness
They beat the Buddha
Out of you
They scare the living Jesus
Out of you
They lay their cards on the table
Three face down
And say: pick the card of
Truth
Which, to nobody’s surprise
You’re not able to do
And you can’t believe your eyes
Brown or blue
But you can believe a proof
That you can’t see through
And you become a Buddha-beater
An exquisite scarifier
A slick shuffler of semblance
With no need that you know of
To enquire
If they knew
Organic Survival
The flower of my youth
Withered on the airless plain
I bore no fruit
My bud burst open
But in vain
And deeper went my root
Modern Wisdom
The Wise One said: do not fret
Wisdom is ungettable
And there’s only one thing to regret
That life is generally regrettable
Getting On
Purloin a policy of sorts
And scrape it till it’s hollow
Then find a following of noughts
And feed them thoughts that they can swallow
Read the script that gets them going
Learn the creed that sets them crowing
And if you manage to amount
To a number large enough to count
And look as if you’ll fill the bill
You’ll get the dreary job –
And get to wave a flag and brag
About how you’ll drag the weary mob
Up Bread-and-Butter Hill
TV (i)
Turn on the TV
See what’s on it
Just another bee
To put in your bonnet
TV (ii)
A hotchpotch of messages
By invisible means
To manifold screens
Arrives from round the world and round about
But when the people watch it
They’re looking in, not out
?
Hast thou forgotten the old earth dreaming?
The swooning terror of the night?
Dost thou
Offer prayers
In crowded thoroughfares?
Give thanks
On the steps of banks?
When you take your car and park it
Outside the supermarket
Are you trepid and unsure?
Do you bow
With fervent vow
Before the automated door?
Do your thoughts pause a moment with the dead?
Do you tremble and believe
Praise the Almighty to receive
Your daily, processed bread?
Or have you forgotten the old earth dreaming?
The swooning terror of the night?
Drunkard’s Lament
Ah, once you could buy bottles
Brim-full of roaring nights and belly laughs
But they don’t sell them anymore
A Toast
Now here’s to the bard of garble
And his sullen
Artifices
A Boast
To rhyme with the times
I write very long poems
In very few lines
Infants and Angels
I was somehow made an angel
But then someone stole my wings
Of course I got straight on his track
Found him, told him: give them back!
He said:
Angels? There are no such things
Voice of a Failure
They say I’ve failed
I’ve done little
And less to any avail
Well here’s a merry retort
To make them wilt
To turn them pale
Here’s a thought to twist their tale:
I haven’t even begun to fail!
…
Mnemonical Pearls
Those squirming moments
Excruciations of embarrassment
You want so badly to wish away
Turn out to have their value –
As splendid mnemonics
Likewise
Ancient irritations
So irksome at the time
May produce mnemonical pearls
A Yellow-eyed Reflection
Yes
I have lain like a lion
In my wound-licking den
And longed for the day
I’d let loose amongst men
The Poet’s Lot
‘Twas ever the poet’s lot
Was it not
To see his conceits
Bemired, buried
Trod in by trotters?
To Be a Poet
To be a poet
Is to be away with the pixies
Mind you
Those pixies throw one hell of a picnic
You can get pixillated
Just passing by
Leaves of Acid 