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Mirror On The Wall

MIRROR ON THE WALL

Never looked better
He told himself (Discounting
Declining eyesight)

A Season In Edge Hill (Repost)

A SEASON IN EDGE HILL

Self-important piddling patchwork college,
peddling half-regurgitated rote knowledge;
chiselling chaste gems into brute ashlar;
live surging forest stripped for lumber cash.

All of a piece: “Sit down, don’t rock the boat”.
Sing up: “Graded brains keep us in power”.
You know the drill. “Do keep up at the back!”
“Hands up if you know the answer.” “Miss!” “Sir!”

Meaninglesswhile in the college canteen
(“Starved a lot, blah, blah”; cabbage days again)
running dogs and other wage slaves drivel,
drone, mimic windmills uncomprehending,

grinning at their own expense, face polished
shiny, shiny, aloof, above all that,
admiring Handsome in smooth-tongued mirrors,
accolading lucky fortunate one.

What can I say? A dickens of a place.
Lancashire’s tundra; bleak without the house.
Overgenerous to call if half-life
One man arrived and only stayed for tea …

——————————————————————

A page of personal history.

The Harlequin’s Lament

THE HARLEQUIN’S LAMENT

Dizzy dandy, prancing bear
Forever circling circus clown
Procrastinating Pollyanna
(And paid up part-time Buddhist)

How you wish upon a star
If you could only find, you know
A comfy place, retreat somewhere
A place to sit back, watch them prance

Their mad and merry dance
And not get drawn back in again
Until (upsetting your fragile balance
Of emotion, mind and body

Being no longer possible)
All three resolve themselves
Discover some kind of trove
A presence in the present

There to breathe, reflect
Devise a more viable plan
For the ever impending future
Yet as is – alas, alack – look here

Take a look, the notebook’s
Chockablock – each slot committed
Or where not then pencilled in at least
But maybe next week, next month

We’ll see …

A Comforting Story

A COMFORTING STORY

I taught it to them
And yet they did not learn it
They must be stupid

——————————————————————

This one is for incompetent teachers everywhere. 😉

Secondhand Living

SECONDHAND LIVING

Your very own death watch beetles
Mark seconds, minutes, hours
Then days, weeks, months and years
Their insistent ticking unheard by your ears
Fine tuned instead to mental scurrying
Myriad mind maps, multiplex memories
Journeys undertaken or imagined
Varicoloured projections outdoing
Any Hollywood lollapalooza
With anadipsic dreams gushing
While hearts intertwine to the tune
Of Bonaparte’s Retreat or are blown apart
To morph into gory gut-wrenching disasters
And you follow your feet down the street
Oblivious to the momentous truth
That moment by moment
You are acting against green screen
And are not here at all, my dear friend
…..
…..

No Regrets

NO REGRETS

Laptop is an anagram of Apoptl
The Toltec God whose name means “Eater of Days”

Spin free from trite contextual reference
Warp ten through breathless subtextual vortex
Feeling one another up digitally

Laptop is an anagram of Apoptl
The Toltec God whose name means “Eater of Days”

The velvet suit, the evening gown, the orchid
A second glass of wine and a second glance
Maybe a second chance, a slow Spanish dance

A nod, a wink, the key is under the mat
It’s all on line, so we shall have no regrets

Laptop is an anagram of Apoptl
The Toltec God whose name means “Eater of Days”

A Season In Edge Hill

A SEASON IN EDGE HILL

Self-important piddling patchwork college,
peddling half-regurgitated rote knowledge;
chiselling chaste gems into brute ashlar;
live surging forest stripped for lumber cash.

All of a piece: “Sit down, don’t rock the boat”.
Sing up: “Graded brains keep us in power”.
You know the drill. “Do keep up at the back!”
“Hands up if you know the answer.” “Miss!” “Sir!”

Meaninglesswhile in the college canteen
(“Starved a lot, blah, blah”; cabbage days again)
running dogs and other wage slaves drivel,
drone, mimic windmills uncomprehending,

grinning at their own expense, face polished
shiny, shiny, aloof, above all that,
admiring Handsome in smooth-tongued mirrors,
accolading lucky fortunate one.

What can I say? A dickens of a place.
Lancashire’s tundra; bleak without the house.
Overgenerous to call if half-life
One man arrived and only stayed for tea …

——————————————————————

A page of personal history.

Another Day

ANOTHER DAY

Still here
Alive and well
Tricked by a promise
That I had finished pretending
——————————————————————

I sometimes think that if we were fitted with a simple mechanism for painlessly switching ourselves off permanently there would be very few humans walking around.

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