Official Merchandise (Shut Up And Sing)

The only thing we learn from history:
We rarely learn from history;
The nihilists know a thing or two;
The hereditary privilege we deserve?

So face the morphing lineage,
Will the next generation be so different?
Carnivalising ancient lore, truth to power.
More graves, more public inquiries, more sellophane towers.

The Power learns their history:
Feed the believers a simulacrum of history:
Fine myths, folklore, official documentaries,
And a thank goodness we have our culture preserved.

So musical chairs plays you again,
Tuned to reflect the diffident muse-godheads.
Inside numbness outside sound:
The rolling parades;
The phoned-in outlines of revised promises of greatness.

And yet more memorials to more sacrifices.
And fresh blood trades shiny medals, praise and prizes.
And the kings and the queens and the presidents salute the fallen.
And the minute of silence silenced by an anthem.
And some trapped doves released escape a now Kitch Athens.

And the lead marionettes tightened heartstrings snap in the aisles;
And the anointed default-heroes' kids urged to shut up and sing:
It's the least we can do,
What's the hell is wrong with you?
Can't you at least join in?
They died for you, for what we must believe in.

So the only thing we learn from history:
Keep your blessed eyes on your crown,
But please move on, you won't fall down;
Chant reflexively item-listing hymns:
Tradition, Family, God, Country, Freedom, Loyalty, Liberty.
And Sacrifice, make some noise!
This new history has some history.

Softsoftloud

A brisk twenty-minute walk everyday,
Means you are up to eighty percent less likely to die early from coronary heart disease, 
diabetes or cancer.

Whereas,
If you stay at home snuggled all comely and lovely and very becomingly sultry
in your TV dinner chair,
Avidly reading my poems,
You are, excitingly, one-hundred percent less likely
to be killed by a vicious pavement cyclist, 
Meaning you won't die early either;
You'll probably die late,
Which is better than never.
Or is it?

I think your choice here is..
There are no guarantees in life.
But that's your choice,
Which is no choice,
And your only guarantee.

Look, it's quite possible a really vicious pavement cyclist might even appear an unbidden subject of my graphomania,
But would this be your choice?

If a vicious pavement cyclist rides unbidden on one of my free verse spaghetti motorways,
Please don't worry;
They'll probably be immersed into the depravity:
The vicious pavement cyclist might awaken in my Poe-like dreamworld
Himalayan flesh-pot-deep in empty and meaningless sex with the Yeti, 
Which according to nature programmes
is the worst kind of empty climactic sex you can have with the Yeti.
(I obviously wouldn't know, having never done that kind of thing.
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.)

Or the vicious pavement cyclist, Camp X-Ray style,
Might be force-fed a lobster through their nose via a pair of tights -
A disturbingly unwashed pair of tights previously worn by 
celebrated and legendary theNeoconstrademark sticksman, Dick Cheney. 
Allegedly..

Or the vicious pavement cyclist could be gently encouraged, inverted commas, 
to sing a Coldplay song backwards
while bathing in a jacuzzi of porcupines who are all in a really bad mood.
(That's the porcupines, not Coldplay)..

Or the vicious pavement cyclist might end up in a forced marriage
with a bidden, totally bidden, squeezed and empty bottle of tomato ketchup..

And no ordinary squeezed and empty bottle of bidden tomato ketchup either.
No, not that kind,
But a squeezed and empty bottle of bidden tomato ketchup with a terrifying superiority complex,
A passive aggressive personality,
And a not entirely healthy interest in grandmothers who smother themselves
in living Anunnaki jam,
Then dress up as pirates to ambush and kidnap naturists astir in the woods attacking carbon dioxide and Cliff Richard songs, Softsoftloud,
As if Cliff Richard is in Mogwai,
Which he isn't, never has been.

No, there's nothing wrong with Mogwai,
But there's definitely something wrong with Cliff Richard being in Mogwai.
But not as wrong as, say,
Mogwai being in Cliff Richard, unbiddenish, Softsoftloud or otherwise.
Or is it?

Curve Ball

A burglar stole my debts.
So, now that I can afford counselling
I have nothing serious to worry about. Hmm..
Now isn't that, in management-jargon, called a curve ball?

I hope the burglar doesn't have a crisis of conscience,
And return my debts back to me.
I'll change the locks on my door,
Make sure the bastard doesn't get in..

Maybe he'll be worried that as he's stolen my debts
I'll worry about having nothing to worry about.
I'll live.
I'll soldier on.
Don't give it a passing thought Mr Benign Burglar.

Can you get counselling for that:
Worrying about having nothing to worry about?
Maybe on the west coast of the USA,
Near some New Age practice in Yellowstone.

And if he goes to prison,
He should receive counselling.
Although these days, things still being the way they are,
The newspapers would have a field day,
Things being the way they are.

I wonder has there ever been a time,
When things weren't the way they were?
There's a conundrum for existential historians to worry about.
Not me though;
I have nothing to worry about,
Except worrying about a burglar returning debts that he stole from me.
What a selfish world this is.

Redacted Charlie Hebdo Haiku

                                          
                                           
                    





 
          

Heroes

   Never meet your heroes,
   They might be greater than you feared.

*   Never meet your heroes,
    They probably hate you.

*new and improved update