Friday, 26 March 2010


Will I reach the age of seventy-four?
Before then, what does my life hold in store?
Will I find untold riches or continue being poor?
If there’s such a thing as Fate, will it knock upon my door?
Supposing it calls when I’m out?
Will it leave a card so that I’ll know (without a doubt)?
Will life pass me by like a fart or some weak sigh?
When it’s time for me to die, will I wonder why?
Should I burst out laughing or hang my head and cry?
Will I be brave and ‘not go gentle into that good night?’
Or quake and crumble, all cowardly and humble, hoping there’s been a mistake?

Choosing when I die is not a choice I’m free to make,
Unless I want to commit suicide and drown myself in a lake,
I don’t wish that, I’m happy for each day that I awake.
Life is precious—there’s a lot at stake.
Some people cling to life when there’s really no reason left,
And when people die, often their loved ones are bereft.
At times like these, some people rely on their faith,
They find it supports them and makes them feel safe.
Nihilists tend to grieve without spiritual crutches,
Suffering independently of organised religions’ clutches.

Whether you’re alone or in a gang, life can hurt everyone,
And the pain they’ll feel is real.
Some wounds one finds that only time will heal,
Although when we hear such clichés they truly lack appeal.
You might think that life’s absurd,
Or, instead, that Divine inspiration occurred,
It won’t make any difference if your arteries are furred!
People seeking answers from gurus and spiritual chancers,

And those who perceive themselves as crucial cosmic dancers—
Integral, yet insignificant parts of a greater whole,
Can like it or lump it… To me they’re much like coal—
Impressive in a heap, of little worth alone,
Heated, they provide a bit of fuel but can’t outlast a stone.

Seeking truth or proof, searching for a rationale is so banal,
If we examine human consciousness we will find
The human mind is like a dog chasing its own tail,
Which is why our attempts to understand ourselves always fail.
We’re too self-conscious for our own good,
It’s easily said—not so readily understood.
Descartes provided us with an eloquent hint: ‘I think therefore I am,’
Our invention of ‘God’ is a paradoxical scam,
Ascribing the unique self-awareness we feel to some higher source is a foolish deal,
If you consider this very carefully the concept is no longer real.
When were you first aware that you were you and here alive right now?
It was a shock you have forgotten—but that’s how we ALL began,
Before we could ‘see’, we just used to BE.

Saturday, 20 March 2010


Solar panels meet regularly to discuss the sun.
Panel beaters read about wife beaters in The Sun.
A forum that was all for them was a form of abuse,
Substance abuse was no excuse as there was no substance to the rumours.
Panel beaters unfairly linked to domestic violence display ill humours.
Mind you ‘panel beaters’ sounds somewhat brutal,
But requests to beat their wives would meet with their refusal.
The sun was beating down on a panel beater’s head,
Sun burnt; he burnt a copy of The Sun for fun,
Before realising said paper could have shielded his skin.
He tried excusing his stupidity but his excuses wore thin,
His alcoholic mother had ruined herself with gin,
Which is referred to as 'mother’s ruin', when did this begin?
He wrote a letter to The Sun to ask this very question,
He received no reply, no hint and no suggestion.
He suggested to his wife they start a whole new life,
By carving his ideas in her skin with a Swiss army knife,
For which he gets detained at Her Majesty’s leisure,
Reports The Sun with undisguised pleasure.
In Broadmoor, unable to go abroad more like he used to,
He reminisces about the things he used to do.
His memory—severely damaged by ECT—plays rose-tinted footage in his head,
He asks his doctors if he can adopt a garden shed,
His days pass dribbling strapped to his bed.
What of his former colleagues, his panel beating chums?
Are they still reading tabloids and scratching their bums?
Who are still living and who are now dead?
Yet thoughts of them never enter his head.
Nor does he wonder why a bumblebee hums?
Or if today is the day when the grim reaper comes…

Wednesday, 17 March 2010


Lemurs’ rhymes with femurs, which might explain why they seem to have such a ‘thigh’ opinion of themselves.
These cheeky monkeys are very dissimilar to the bone in the upper leg, and most other bones that spring to mind.
Collectively, bones form skeletons inside various bodies including those of lemurs,
Multiples of monkeys tend to form a tribe.
The expression, ‘A barrel full of monkeys,’ would not be as effective with ‘bones’ in the place of ‘monkeys,’
Although ‘biscuit barrels’ seem to be accepted for what they are—containers for storage of carbohydrate snacks, like a jar!
Of course it would be unwise to keep biscuits in a barrel previously used for easily shooting fish—then the biscuits would lose their appeal as a dish.
A dish—on which you could place a biscuit, if you so wish—could be made of bone china, but it would differ from bones as much as femurs from lemurs.
No—bone china is a type of earthenware, that’s all,
Breaking more readily than bones depending on how far they fall!
To not acquaint yourself with the true nature of these very different things is hard to excuse and hard to explain.
Unless, of course, you’re ‘bone’ idle!

Wednesday, 10 March 2010


Did Albert Camus forsake goalkeeping for the attainment of his own personal goals?
Was his brand of absurdist existentialism an own goal?
Was he too nihilistic to believe in anything?
Or are his books misunderstood comedies?
Was he clairvoyant?
Did he stage his death in a manner that anticipates how Marc Bolan, much later, would die?
Did he laugh much or was he often seen to cry?
Pronounced correctly, Albert Camus sounds like a gnu.
Does this make him more readily a popular guru?
Camus remains influential in counter-cultural pockets, predominantly around Europe.
Jean Paul Sartre, for a start, would acknowledge his contemporary—at the time.
Camus wrote about plagues and murder yet never committed a crime.
He wrote of exile, alienation and suicide.
His books are far from cheerful and I have to confide they’ve had me in tears.
AC might be overrated now, but was he recognised by his peers?
Isolated loners arriving in cities to exist as outsiders feature in his work,
Profundity can be the hallmark of a pretentious, shallow, berk.
Was AC a lazy writer? Did he feign illness and shirk?
Where are his hidden meanings? How deeply do they lurk?
Is The Myth of Sisyphus some kind of surreal perk?
Was his understated prose contrived?
Did he steal his philosophy from some oppressed clerk?
Taking advantage of narcoleptics, did AC rise like a lark?
Shaping his stolen material furtively in the dark?
Was he a rare mind with a unique voice, or a soulless operative lacking choice?
Was he as great as (and did he admire) James Joyce?
Was Joyce the real plagiarist—with AC his innocent stooge?
Was he notoriously mean-spirited like Ebenezer Scrooge?
No one really knew Albert Camus; no one really had a clue.
So ignorance of AC is really nothing new,
Life’s futility features in the themes of AC’s material,
If AC visited a contemporary séance, he’d have to be ethereal.
Posthumous acclaim and the scholarly bandying of his name,
Contribute to his fame but to the dead that’s all the same.
The Rebel was one of Camus’ books,
Also it was the title of one of Tony Hancock’s films.
The book deals with murder; while the film should make you laugh.

Monday, 1 March 2010


Haemophiliac pygmies—I’ve no sympathy for the little bleeders!
As for people who say things like, ‘There’s more than one way to skin a cat.’
They should be flayed alive.
People who are over zealous about work for its own sake piss me off.
After all if there was money in working rich people would be doing it.
On a work related matter, people I’d like to batter smell of fish and moan about how hard they’re always grafting.
I don’t believe these tedious martyrs, unless they happen to be cosmetic surgeons.
Anyone who’d go under the knife purely for reasons of vanity would cut their nose to spite their face.
I can’t stand people who appear left behind by the human race.
People as stupid as they look should fall prey to every crook.
Serve them right—the dozy pricks—to always fall for malicious tricks.
People on their mobiles who say they’re on the bus should spontaneously combust.
Or choke on their pus.
Boring strangers who make your acquaintance, at a bus stop perhaps,
And inflict their autobiographies and medical symptoms on you,
Should be struck dumb and paralysed,
Then subjected to a stimulus they find unbearable… Indefinitely.
I’d make clumsy people train as juggling, tightrope walkers and perform in circuses.
People who interrupt could be woken up every time they fall asleep.
Chauffeurs are not beyond reproach—they’ve driven many people to drink,
Make them lose their licenses and walk everywhere, I think.
Talkative taxi drivers represent a rank experience albeit for fleeting moments,
If I could I’d afflict them with Alzheimer’s and watch them driving round in confused circles.
War veterans who never give anyone else a moment’s peace should be made to cease,
I would vengefully discredit the tradition of commemorative poppies;
Fostering rumours of links to opium and Al Qaeda.
People who refer to Al Qaeda at the drop of a hat, as the source of every potential threat—no matter how slight or implausible—should face time-wasting legislation, if not terrorism.