Prittle, Prattle,
Wiffle, Waffle
The radio drones
on
In the next
room.
Spittle, Spattle,
Piddle, Widdle,
I ablute my ablutions,
In the bathroom nearby.
Mumble, Bumble,
Grumble, stumble.
Now I can hear
Fool talking to fool.
Argule,
Bargule
Refute , Convolute.
Half truths
and lies and prejudiced mush
I’d hear more
sense if I
Went back to
the bathroom
And listened
attentively
As the
toilet flushed.
Sitting on the arse end of the island
On bench at
the beach
In the
drizzling rain
As clouds
close the horizon down
I can see a cormorant
flying low
Over the
grey waves
No sign of
any other land
Or anything
else
Though I know
that out there
People crammed
in flimsy rubber dinghies,
Wish they
could skim over the sea
Like that cormorant
And join landlocked objects,
Like me and that bollard.
I walked into an ancient computer,
In an
echoing suburban sports hall,
I watched
its components all working
And they looked
back at me.
I watched
them processing the data,
Which was my
task to see.
Paper data
arrived in boxes
It was spilt
out onto table tops.
A component
checked around carefully
For data
missed or dropped.
Human hands sorted
the data,
By human eyes each item was seen
Could there
be fewer errors
If fed through
a digital machine?
Bribery blackmail
and prejudice
Can alter what humans do,
Machines are not intelligent enough,
But they can
be corrupted too.
Waged
workers sitting at tables
Are the
ancient computers parts
They might
care about democracy
Since their votes
will be counted as well
But a soulless
machine
Just rapidly
does whatever it’s going to do
Counting votes,
dropping bombs
Or playing a
stupid tune
Or all of
these things at once
And it does
not care because it cannot care
About anything
that it has done.
I’m told that when some people dream,
Symphonies,
songs, magnificent designs
And paradigm
shattering theories can be born;
To enrich
and change our world.
I’m not in
that league,
I’m a silly old fart,
I dream of
no science, music, nor art.
So, as my unconscious
absorbs
Gale forecasts
from the radio
And my weak
bladder drags me into wakefulness,
I have
nightmares about
A scaffold pole
leaning against
My backyard brick
wall.
Poised to fall
windblown,
Smashing through
a window.
I know the scaffold pole must
Be laid down for the peaceful sleep
That I cannot now have,
Because in my dream
The scaffold pole grows
Taller and heavier than it really is
A grey vast iron monster
Which I am unable to wrestle down
To the ground.
So, no theories
No Symphonies, songs,
Or magnificent
designs for me
Just fear of
a heavy metal defeat.
Visit the suburb of Kingsbury to see
Private wealth
and public squalor
Rubbing shoulders,
uneasily.
High street traffic
jammed with four by four
Petrol guzzlers
and big new electric hybrids.
And the
pretty signs on the lampposts
Above the
cycle lanes tell us
How eco-friendly
Kingsbury is.
This truth is confirmed as tired men
Recycle almost new attire,
Rummaging through the piles of discarded clothes
Outside the old clothes bin.
Some pick up trousers,
From the chewing gum stained pavement
Then hold them up against
The worn out strides
That they’re already wearing.
Families pass them by on their way
To the vegetarian restaurants and supermarkets,
Cars roll on regardless,
And wastebins overflow
Into the empty cycle lanes.
'The Sun is God’,
Turner said.
He showed
how it can even shine
From a
canvas rubbed with ‘shit’
Which it has
enabled us to see
The Sun shining
over the seas,
Where
battleships fight
Drowning sailors as they sink.
Shining over the waves,
Which are the only headstones
That the slaves jettisoned
From the Zong would have,
If it wasn’t for Turner.
So our Sun God shines,
Over turnip pickers at Slough,
And warring apes and ants,
As it once shone
Over dinosaurs, terror birds
And gorgonopsids.
Does it watch life
Making
Mistake after mistake after mistake ,
As it burns?
I can’t describe light,
I can give a
name
And I might fail
to explain
How light lights me up
Releases chemicals,
And electric currents.
I’m told, that these bounce
Surge and flicker
Through my confused, convoluted
Head porridge
Disassembling and reassembling
Photonic thoughts
Off the insides of my bone dome,
Making me happier than
Any drug has ever done.
I can’t explain.
