Sunday, 16 February 2014

Pickings from the archive

What follows is a selection from the previous incarnation of Rickasaurus writes. I felt they deserved re-posting but didn't want to pretend they were new, though I have done some editing...

M O N D A Y , 2 0 A U G U S T 2 0 1 2
Glass Reality

There’s a boy
There’s a boy
There’s a boy out in the rain
There’s a boy
There’s a boy
There’s a boy out in the rain
And he’s wet
And he’s wet
And he’s wet from head to toe
And he shivers
And he shivers
Cos he’s out there in the cold

But he’s smiling
through the rain and through the tears
You can see him from your window
The vision ignites your fears
You could reach him
through the glass and your pity
Just another little lost boy
in a first world city

There’s a boy
There’s a boy
There’s a boy on the front line
There’s a boy
There’s a boy
There’s a boy on the front line
And he’s killed
And he’s killed
And he’s killed and cant go home
He’s a boy
He’s a boy
He’s a boy in a war zone

But he’s smiling
in his favourite Rambo pose
Just another freedom fighter in
oversized combat clothes
You could reach him
through the glass of your TV
Just another little lost boy
in a war torn city

There’s a boy
There’s a boy
There’s a boy out on the road
There’s a boy
There’s a boy
There’s a boy out on the road
And he picks
And he picks
And he picks up his football
And he screams
And he screams
As he hears the fast cars horn

But he’s smiling
in the old school photograph
that they’re showing on the news while
your kids splashing in the bath
If you could reach him
through the glass of your memory
He’d be more than just a picture
and a road death tragedy

There’s a girl
There’s a girl
There’s a girl in women’s clothes
There’s a girl
There’s a girl
There’s a girl in women’s clothes
And she knows
And she knows
And she knows what they should pay
And they spend
And they spend
And they spend to have their way

But she’s smiling
as she sits up at the bar
sipping at her cocktail asks
if you drive a fast car
You could reach her
through a glass of daiquiri
Just another little lost girl
in the sex industry

There’s a girl
There’s a girl
There’s a girl stitching trainers
There’s a girl
There’s a girl
There’s a girl stitching trainers
And she earns
And she earns
And she earns pennies a day
But she knows
But she knows
But she knows that’s just the way

But she’s smiling
as she sets up her machine
nimble little fingers
ensure the needle is keen
You could reach her
through glass fronted high street tat
Her work ignored you worry that
it makes your arse look fat
You could reach her
through a local charity
Just another little lost girl
earning for her family

And there’s us
And there’s us
Who’ve got time for poetry
And there’s us
And there’s us
complicit in all we see
Brittle glass
Brittle glass
brittle glass reality
Sentiment makes us teary

And we’re smiling
Cos we know this already
We’re not stupid we’re just trapped
inside our sense of liberty
We could reach them
if we had glass like clarity
of uncluttered existence
and wider sense of duty
But we see them
Through telescopic glass
So near so far it’s too late
tragedy has come to pass
And we’re Not them
We draw circles in the sand
Our kith our kin our nation
and our favourite sports brands
And I’m smiling
But i know I could do more
if I stopped looking out through windows
and instead open the doors.

S U N D A Y , 5 A U G U S T 2 0 1 2
Rickasaurus Wanders The Earth

I’ll tell you things unheard before
about a certain dinosaur
who slept through extinction
the ice age
and the thaw
whom you might not even notice
until you hear him roar
He can fit right in just anywhere
often seen without a care
dresses to impress around his
short arms and chest hair
To see him not sporting a hat
is unbelievably rare.
you see...
As into birds his friends evolved
and as the earth got really cold
he slept right through millions of years
awoke after humans appeared
Rickasaurus is his name
really he’s extremely tame
You’d think the last dinosaur might seek fame
But Rickasaurus has other things on his brain
Obviously he likes to rhyme
smokes cigarettes which aint yet a crime
likes to bake when he has the time
he has a truly busy mind
around which endless cogs will grind
within which endless thoughts roam blind
with a wondering mentality
he’s therefore inclined
He wonders why buses are always late
if gophers and elephants could ever mate
why Simon Cowel makes him so irate
if we have free will or if its down to fate
If dinosaurs were once the kings
should he do something amazing?
He wonders why people have to die
why babies have to bloody cry
whether dinosaurs DID learn to fly
Whether whats worth doing’s worth doing well
If its gonna take some time will it take time to tell?
If a tree falls in the forest who cares that it fell?
If your soul gets a good price why not sell?
So he wanders with these wonderings
thinking these and other things
about the time dinosaurs were kings
but is glad he never evolved wings

T H U R S D A Y , 1 2 A P R I L 2 0 1 2
Bringing Clarity

The shadow through the crack under the door
betrays the intruders presence but not their shape
Flickering suggestions of form
dancing quickly into view
the punchline of a jape
where the set-up’s been forgotten
clarity only comes with experience
a refocusing of lens
Alternating light-source
all par for the course
when you know how
The intrinsic value of baring your own torch
The satisfaction of smoking on your own front porch
The wary relation to regular debauch
the scorch marks that bare
the been-there’s, done-thats
bought all the t-shirts
the badges and the hats

T H U R S D A Y , 5 A P R I L 2 0 1 2
Spanking is Sometimes Necessary

I don’t rant enough
Or at least haven’t enough
Of late
And there’s a state of affairs out there
A whole bunch of stuff hanging in the air
There’s still dictators and laissez faire
And do I care...?

If I was Ahmadinejad’s dad
I’d put him over my knee
Tell him “no more nuclear games!”
To help bring stability

If I was old Assad’s papa
I’d give him a thick ear
Ground him so he don’t go playin
With the kids of Syria

If I has Cameron’s father
I’d give that boy what for...
“a tax on bloody pasties!?
Will that really help the poor!?”

If I was Ban-ki-moon’s pops
Is kick him up the arse
Well done for getting the UN job
But you still let too much past!

If my son was Vladimir Putin
I’d glow with blatant pride
Cos to not would only end with
What’s made to look like suicide

If I was Kim-Jong Un’s Dada
I’d say he makes me Kim-Jong ILL
And note if he doesn’t make changes
At some point his people will

If I had spawned the president
of the good ol' USA
I’d wonder why he wants to save the world
But is afraid of the married gay

If I’d banged Hamid Karzai’s mum
And Hamid was my own dear son
Is tell him to “stop leading us all on”
And to “clear up the bloody corruption”

If Angela Merkel was my girl
I’d love her though I’d sigh
“if you volunteer to clear up Europe
Don’t complain or roll your eyes”

If I had any children to ask
In North or South Sudan
“You split yourselves up once before
Is doing that again really the plan?”

I’m not and haven’t been a father
And though that’s probably for the best
There’s nothin I could do to my kids
That compares to other people’s kids

W E D N E S D A Y , 7 M A R C H 2 0 1 2
In Defence of...Trying to do Good

Peacemaker in a situation
fires burning actions stations
silent call to arms
to present my charms
when no-one asked me to.
There was a time
alarm bells would chime
a call to save each passing soul
now I decline
with effort sublime
to protect my self same whole.
There could be comments about mothering effects
about childhood trauma and birth defects
I was best placed to save I believed
It was just naive
to think that everyone can be redeemed
by the efforts of one
or so it seems
is our each own
thats not to disown
the will to be of service.
just to acknowledge
that we each must calm
the bells within ourselves.
And if I am to assist
then its with this piece I compose
of knowledge
and forethought
and my old woes.

M O N D A Y , 6 F E B R U A R Y 2 0 1 2
Fall in Love Too Easily

Fall in love too easily
its a very easy plea.
A call to arms to not love someone
a battle I’m happy lose
An army of people I’ve declared my heart for
kills me every time that I’ve waged war
On the plains of the battle field
where I’ve not used my shield
my vena cava I wield
my fate’s been sealed...
A self aware General
of an undisciplined heart
instructing it to dig trenches
I’ve made a martial art
of going over the top
looking for the glory
when wading through mud
blinded and gory.
The ones who never passed the initial skirmish
especially the one who, if i’m earnest
it tears me apart
to be a world apart
We might have jumped the gun
skipped the early skirmishes
not scouted out the forward guard
just got stuck in and battled hard
but the twilight arrived
the ground opened wide
and stopped our stride
the least laid plans became mired
and tore our armies asunder.
I cant help wonder
what could have been
would war have turned to peace
would the ranks have risen from underneath
and overthrown the military mind
we’ll never know
so to war I bind.
The one who fled mid battle
when a treaty we were about to settle
war makes a person show their mettle
even after a long campaign
there could still have been champagne
and isn't it a shame cos look at me now
upon the hills brow
white tent
hell bent
on more passionate claret
being spilt from my chest
a return to the fray
after some seasons of rest.
the ones who saw their particular war through
at least we got a score.
and the war was won or lost
no matter what it cost
and the treaties we signed
and the axes we no longer grind
are but tales we tell to our children.
But scarred and bleeding
from my bleeding heart
some call me a charmer
some call me a tart
But in battles fought and won
in the ones I lost
I still had fun
I learned to love
and how to be loved
to gouge and to claw
to be subtle
to draw
round the flanks
draw out the ranks
How to rout
and be routed
learnt to be confident
learnt to be doubted
but I’ve manned my station
at every turn
through this loving and fighting
in the end I always learn.

Autumn Porridge Morning

I hate Autumn.
The slow death of the year
A corpse of the promise of springtime
A wake for summertime’s cheer.
I hate Porridge.
The slow slop grey in a bowl
A corpse of the promise of farmland
A wake for a bacon roll.
I love Morning
The slow built face of the day
A ghost of the death of midnight
Reawakened and plucked from the grey.

Present and Future Hinge

That point where the road meets the horizon
That distant point where land and sky converge
I want to balance there like an acrobat
There where the present and the future merge.
I’ll meet you where the road meets the horizon
I’ll meet you where the land and sky converge
We’ll hold each other like acrobats trapeezing
Where the present and the future merge.
That point where the road runs fast downhill
That irresistible point where gravity wins
I want to rush headlong like a runaway train
Where the present and future hinge.
I’ll meet you where the road runs fast downhill
I’ll meet you where gravity wins
We’ll link arms like carriages
Runaway train together
Where the present and future hinge.

S A T U R D A Y , 1 7 S E P T E M B E R 2 0 1 1

In regard to many matters of disdain
We often feel the need to play a game
Sometimes causal paths can seem so plain...
And it always ends up focussing on blame...
I blame the parents
I blame the schools
I blame the media
For spreading mass hysteria
I blame social networking
For sending us all beserking
For distracting us while working
I blame false economy
I blame 2 for 1
Got us believing that half off
Equals double the fun
I blame banking institutions
I blame bottomless pensions
Making money a commodity
When its only meant to stand for one
I blame successive governments
I blame the EU, the UN
Unable to agree on much that’s
Put in front of them.
I blame the youth of today
The immigrants, the gay
I blame the right wing twats
The left wing scum
I blame anyone foolish enough
To believe what they read in the sun.
I blame the masons and
The old boys networks
Nepotistic secret orders
Driving round in Mercs.
I blame aliens, the CIA
Al Qaeda, MI5
I blame poor role models
Footballers who take a dive.
I blame drugs
I blame history
I blame Scooby Doo
And his machine of mystery.
It’s bliss for me to
Find someone to blame
It’s like Jenga or Monopoly
Only this is a FUN game.
Blame whoever you can
Blame fate
I blame you
Just don’t take responsibility
Whatever it is that you do.

M O N D A Y , 1 A U G U S T 2 0 1 1
Human Contact

Hand on hand
frozen moment dappled sunlight
Eye locks eye
Frozen moment inspiring fright
Comfort and abuse
Human contact
Side by side
Silence provides a cot
Face to face
Silence revealing rot
Companionship and loss
Human contact
Beep beep beep
Thoughts electronically acknowledge
Beep beep beep
unrepeatable even after watershed
Mediatization and mediation
Human contact
A to B
Traversed for soul succours’ sweetness
A to Z
Traversed for paint-by-numbers kiss
Honesty and convenience
Human contact
Thumbs up
Positive attentions
Thumbs down
Fed to the lions
Adulation and discrimination
Human contact
On your knees
Black bag over your face
On your knees
Black bag over your face
Hostage or horny
Human contact
Tale to tell
words whipping past
Tale to tell
Moral to impart
Ego and wisdom
Human contact

S U N D A Y , 3 1 J U L Y 2 0 1 1
Have a Fag

When nothing takes your fancy
When doing is too much
When you’re hanging out just waiting
Smoking is a crutch
When standing at the bus stop
When hearing some bad news
When there’s nothing doing
Smoking can amuse
You know it’s bad for you
You know that it can kill
You know you shouldn't do it
You foreswear it when you’re ill
You do it without thinking
You do it on your breaks
You do it when you’re drinking
You smoke to stop the shakes
Have a fag to calm you
Have a fag to wake you up
Have a fag to celebrate
Winning the FA cup
Have a fag in a pub garden
Have a fag with your mate Jen
Have a fag just anywhere
Just not round liquid oxygen

S U N D A Y , 2 4 J U L Y 2 0 1 1
Images of...Solitude
In no particular order...

Walking around with your i-pod on
Sunrise over the hill
That odd sock
The commute to work - No eye contact
Long-haul trucker - driving through the night
Walking away - not looking back
The world under the covers
Smoking outside in the rain
Returning home after your partners’ funeral
The ancient oak - stood in a field
Single bed - unmade
microwave dinners - a freezer full of
Glass of wine - kids tucked-in upstairs
That unspeakable secret
Foreign city - not speaking the language
Foetal position - on the floor
Desert island
Your final exhale
Depressive illness
Settee - one worn cushion
That pair of greying pants with holes in
A book entitled “how to make friends by hypnosis”
Wanting to ask - not knowing how
A cloud

T H U R S D A Y , 2 1 J U L Y 2 0 1 1
Sofa, Soup and Duvet

There is a validity
To sloth
A day spent motionless under
A down filled cloth
To define the perfect
Angle of recline
To sip soup and watch the TV
Change the channel from time to time...
I can shine on any other day but this
The only spur to action is when I need a piss
Then it’s back to inactivity
My wanton, safe proclivity
The settee...
I’m not a lazy bastard by design
I see these days as bulwarks against
My eventual decline
A cushion focussed pit-stop
On the road to being fine
Tomorrow I’ll wake early
And be fit to tow the line...

Now there’s someone knocking at
The door
I’m glad I kept the curtains shut cos
Getting up’s a chore
It’s the postman with a box he can’t
post through
He can leave it with a neighbour whilst I
Quietly make a brew...
I’ll get through this semi-anti-social phase
Just tomorrow or on one of the subsequent days
I’ll get back to normal running
My normal wit and cunning
Verbal tonguing...
I don’t hide from the world usually
I see these days as barricades
To protect my sense of me
A cushion focussed love-in
Where it’s OK just to be
Tomorrow I’ll wake early and
A difference you will see...

Duvets, soup and sofa’s
Offer palliative care
Allow some time to just forget
One day I’ll lose my hair
Tomorrow I’ll have breakfast
Once again sit in a chair
All too often time to renew
ones self is all too rare
I encourage you to try too
And enjoy a padded lair
A day sometimes, in all you’ll live
The wisdom, peace and time it gives
The value in being inactive
Is under-rated...

M O N D A Y , 1 8 J U L Y 2 0 1 1
Consumer Tea

Oh Look at me!
Drinking Coffee
in a shopping piazza in town
Gleaming brickwork and solid glass
While I sip espresso sat on my arse
feeling virtuous, cultured, relaxed...
Watch the well heeled wander
Back and forth and ponder
The half price sales on display
There’s no decay here
despite the high street’s decline
Everyone smiles here
As long as we shop we’re fine.
Beach-bum boys in over long shorts
miles and miles from the sea
Long legged girls in tight denim shorts
Turn the boys heads (involuntarily)
And outside the cafe where the
Sandwich crumbs have dropped
Despite the regularly cleared tables
And the security guards who stopped
The cyclists chaining their bikes to a lamp-post
And smokers from dropping dog-ends
The pigeons swoop in and peck at the ground
Attempt, a meal, to scavenge
Toddlers chase them
And screech with glee
All but one
The one sat by me
Just as pock ridden as the rest
Just a lot bigger and wearing a dress
Scrounging for fags and cups of tea
Wafting an odour of acridity
Like a crack in a pavement
There to step over
This flightless pigeon
This shopping centre rover
Is almost invisible, on her over-sized rear
Despite all the glass and the sunlight so clear
She wasn't in the architect’s plans
When they built this place
She don’t browse, she don’t buy
Has no need for pants of lace
So while we all consume so
I make a libation
Give a donation
I buy her a cup of tea

W E D N E S D A Y , 1 3 J U L Y 2 0 1 1
Images of Bliss
In no particular order...

Eyes closed - Half smile
Sand between your bare toes
Sleeping baby - cuddling teddy
Pimms in a pub garden - Summer
Hot chocolate by a roaring fire
Closing the bedroom door at the end of the day
Ice-cream round a toddler’s mouth
Stepping off the plane into the sunlight
First kiss
Fitting into the same jeans you wore when you were eighteen
A day with no demands
Dangling your feet in the river
Honest communication
A swaddled new-born held tight to a mothers chest
A long, loud fart
A hug from your oldest friend
Hands wrapped around a steaming cuppa
Matching shoes and bag
Making mud pies
Your last Rolo
Fresh-baked bread - still warm from the oven
Duvet days
Finding a forgotten tenner in your jacket pocket
Laying back in a hot bath
That book you’ve read over and over
Fresh-cut grass smell
Random acts of kindness
Mutual respect
Walking around the house naked
Positive exam results
Negative blood tests
“I do”
A kicked habit
Cat curled up on your lap - purring
Being discharged from hospital
Your first festival
Pay bay
Crossing the finish line - breathless, sweating

Is it Ironic That You GaveMe a Book Entitled “NeverLet Me Go” the Last Time We Met?
Squeeze surprise tears
Aggravate allayed fears
Never Let me go...
Final farewell looming
Silent silence booming
Never let me go...
The half silence
and small talk on the final drive
The wish to denounce
but to beg you
Never let me go...
The last division
of goods bought together when
the wish to cleave together
meant not begging
Never let me go...
The politeness
under duress
The wish to digress
and recriminate
for all the things you said
the plans that lay unled
in a pool of irony they beg
Never let me go...

Images of Regret:
In no particular order...

Crossing the border unable to look back
Father and Son sat silently not knowing what to say
Hiding the used prophylactics and stained sheets before the
husband gets home
Suicide in a prison cell
Crawling over hot coals
Shooting the last of its kind
Kevin Carter’s photography
Pissed in the pub while the kids go hungry at home
The lie in the eye when you both know
Being too scared to try
His violent threats as she sobs and clutches at her clothes
The arms dealers face when he gets shot
Being picked last
Silence instead of applause
Convulsing in the metal chair when they throw the switch
Polar bears stranded on tiny ice flows
The blue line on the stick
Tears over spilt milk
Mushroom clouds and blistered skin
Lott’s wife
Words you cant take back
Signing the divorce papers
Snowless mountain peaks
A toddler saying “Sorry Mummy!” over and over and over and
Porno under the mattress
Break up sex
Not saying goodbye
Burying the body - burning the clothes
Being repossessed for unpaid loans
Poisoned fish floating belly up
African kids in fatigues holding AK47’s
The drive home from the family planning clinic
Having to choose whether to live with Mum or Dad
The cloud of exhaust fumes at the site of a hit and run

S U N D A Y , 1 M A Y 2 0 1 1
Monsters are of Our Own Making

Monsters are of our own making
Sticky and stoned
Broken bones
Names have always hurt me
Blind and alone
Some things have grown
Come alive...
One gargoyle
One seraphim faced
One chiselled and worn
One with shining grace
A precipice the the meeting place
The storm that did rage
A lightning war waged
The angel ducked
The monster dived
While both they fought
They both did thrive
The battle tipped
When with tormented grit
The tormentor bit but the soul hung on
So While temptation called
Sense-of-self talked
A chain of thought
“This gargoyle is but stone”
Said seraphim stood alone
With but a frozen piece of rock.

W E D N E S D A Y , 2 0 A P R I L 2 0 1 1
An Attempt to Solve Writers

Oh flat screen
I worshipped u
The obscene hours
And obscene visions
I’ve had prone before you...
The coldness and ill-literate
Distraction of your church
The draft that takes the wind
From my sails
An ill wind that blows me channel to
While I’m growing pale.
The font of ink and paper
In which I swam baptised
From lack of libation and offered time
Has dried.
Oh gods of art
Oh gods of soul
Gods of anything...
Rock n roll?
What must I offer
For u to let me
Write once again
Something of quality?
Must I hang myself
From an oak tree?
Give myself up
As sacrifice to thee.?
Maybe I’ll just
switch off the tv...

W E D N E S D A Y , 6 A P R I L 2 0 1 1

The wind turbines wave to Dungeness
In a gloating, self-righteous way.
Their elegant spinning is three fingers up
To the ugly old nuclear dame.
Between them are decades of energetic debate
And miles of wasteland with a thirst to slake.
She huddles at the lands-end
With her nuclear family
Indistinguishable blocks
Staring out to sea.

S A T U R D A Y , 2 A P R I L 2 0 1 1
Bourgeois Bohemian

With the un-cased guitar under your arm!
On your taut chest and stained vest
Soap wouldn’t do any harm.
Did u fall out of bed that way?
Decide to be dirty come what may?
Your ideological aversion to cleaning
Your arty, unwashed, muso leaning
Gives your bourgeois Bohemian existence meaning
Your Sharp pointed winklepickers
Counterpoint your bushy barnet
With your artily piled fashion hair
If we bred you we could farm it!
Your tattoos come from catalogues
And look like they’ve been done by dogs
On your lower arm
Signs self harm
Framed by your minimal togs
With your I-dont-care air
Your middle distance stare
Imagining your rare
When we all know that round the music festivals you’re nineteen
to the dozen
And you probably just borrowed the look from your much cooler
Do you imagine us all as soooo uncouth
Is that the reason you stay aloof?
Or is it fear
That if we hear
You speak we’ll know the truth?
As you rattle off obscure philosophy as your own
Eulogise the trees Johnny Appleseed has sown
I’d listen but I’d rather lay prone
My genitals hit repeatedly with a heavy stone...
You’re not a work of art
You’re a pastiche of borrowed style
You’re not a fashionista
You do not have the guile
I have no real time for you
But I do have loads of bile

M O N D A Y , 2 8 M A R C H 2 0 1 1
The Rush to Death
(not as depressing as it sounds)

We’re in the car right...
Maybe Windows wound down
To hear the sound of the wind
Rushing past
Deliberately devouring the sense
Of the inevitability of our own inertia
Coming up to meet us
As the open road greets us
With its tarmacadam’d smile
“welcome to now”
The curve in the corners seem to say
As they gently sway your centre of gravity
Making temporal internal organs
Jiggle and jostled for position
Against rib and soft tissue
“welcome to now, you’ll sooner gone”
As the organs resettle
And we forget...
Hence, the occasional inclination
To reinvest our physical selves
When on the straight
In the sensation of rushing air
Through thinning hair
As time and tarmac continue their
Co-determined march
We’re sat up front
Where the adults sit
But remember the long and arduous
Disenfranchisement of the back seat?
Oh the sweet savoured shopping trip
Where the benefit of going
With whichever legally permitted adult
Was the rhapsody
The heady experience
Of the front seat...
Of the windscreen and swollen lower eyelid
Of the bonnet just in view
For two minutes there
And two minutes back
But that
Was enough to satisfy the lack
Of grown up position in the world...
From the boredom of the drivers side
On the M25
The inner drive
To just drive and drive
Around and around
Revising the sound
Of fuel guzzling engine
And worn spinning tyres
As we drive and drive
Push and strive
To move on
Feel the wheel
Control so much steel and fibreglass
Or whatever these boxes are made of these days
Knowing as we do now
But didn’t when we so craved the vehicular
Forward position
Is the rushing responsibility
Of ownership
The shit of car tax
Insurance, MOTs and servicing
Aware of changes in performance
As you swallow up and spit out
Evermore choking fumes
Knowing one day the scrap-yard looms
And so knowing that one day this car will die
Unbeknownst to that eager self
That youngster
One day, so will I

S A T U R D A Y , 1 9 M A R C H 2 0 1 1
Two poems about Robots... not in a sci-fi way...


There was a robot boy
Once upon a time
Though he was not a toy
He was played with.
His little tin hands
And his little tin feet
Would shake and quake
When it happened
His little tin heart
In his little tin chest
Would pump all its pistons
And steam
But his little tin eyes
In his little tin face
Would stare straight ahead
Not betray a trace
Of the metallic taste in his mouth.
Robot boy just aimed to please
Used his heating unit to make everyone toasties
He pulled off his arm to use as a jack
When out one day and his Dad got a flat
Robot boy tried to behave
And not just for the nut and bolt treats all boys crave
But so he could oil his ill used smile
Feel he was built for some use for a while
But for Robot boy that was not to be
He’d just be reminded occasionally
Of his high running costs (due to the rising price of oil)
And how more growth meant more spent on replacement neck
Robot boy knew his parents loved him
Though they were not like him
They couldn’t see how hollow it felt that they’d made him out of
Steel is strong
Brass is solid
Copper bright
When polished
Tin was cheap and tin will bend
When weight is loaded on just one end...
But Robot boy became a Robot man
Moved to a tin caravan
Where he tried to make friends
And he tried to be nice
But somehow in someway
Never got it right
That hollow tin feeling
Day and night
Just followed him round
Like a black tin dog
Being a Robot man
He knew not how to sob
And let it all out
So he stored it in circuits
And wires - no doubt
Assuming as Robots are wanton to will
That circuits and wires are unlikely to fill
But that is not the case
His processor found it harder to process
Cogs would fly off to his distress
And his big tin hands
And his big tin feet
Would shake and quake when it happened
And his big tin heart
In his big tin chest
Would pump all its piston and steam
But his big tin eyes
In his big tin face
Would stare straight ahead and betray not a trace of the metallic
taste in his mouth
Now this played itself out for a number of years
Periodically replacing
Those missing gears
With whatever he found or cobbled together
Sometimes strolling in finer weather
The parks and streets near his home
He wasn’t unhappy or crazy or mad
It’s just that being made of tin
He wasn’t wired to be a lad
Or a geezer or sporty or boozy and that
He didn’t have specs that left him able to relax
He just kept it all in
His chest made of tin
And pretty much still does...
But there’s a happy ending to this tale and its toil
He met a robot lady whom he’d allow to change his oil
They moved into his tin caravan
And shared the nights and days
And though for Robot man the feelings never went away
The Robo-love these robots shared
Made it somehow ok.
And his big tin hands
And his big tin feet
Would shake from time to time
And his big tin tin heart in his big tin chest would pump all its
pistons and steam
His big tin eyes in his big tin face
Would stare straight ahead
Robot lady would go to him
Comfort him instead
She knew how he was wired this Robot man
She knew big wild gestures would not help him stand
Against the technical, in-built flaws
He didn’t understand
She could not fix his cogs
Did not know how to rewire
Couldn’t melt him down to rebuild him over a blacksmith’s fire
She knew she couldn’t claim these things
Or take him to some distant land
So she did the only thing this Robot girl could
She just held his Robot hand.

Robot Poem No. 2

Sometimes I think I’m a robot - but its not just me...
You sit there
Un-emotive, immobile
Automated pleasantries
Pre-programmed and vile.
Automata I love you
But I know u cannot give
The responses that I crave from you
You breathe but do not live.
I don’t know when I realised
That while switched on you’re also
Despite the crude facial expressions and the occasional
You do some things so rightly
But other things you do are slightly
And with all your data files
Facts and figures you recognise 
Your mechanised brain
Still seems to strain
At one-to-one interaction.
You’ve got command path strategies
For throwing successful dinner parties
Lines of code for shopping and for sport
But those command paths seem to fail at the last
When intimacy rears its full blooded head
You seem to dread
Such as you can
Cogs whirr
And you shut down
Your robo eyes glaze over
And your speech unit stalls
When face to face relating
All your knowledge falls
Maybe its a corrupted file
And your program just goes offline for a while
Instead of loading up those terra-bytes
In some un-emotive oversight
You can’t show delight
So engaging with me is always crude
Forgetting yourself to the point of rude
Makes for distant

M O N D A Y , 1 4 M A R C H 2 0 1 1
Do U Live by Lists?

Shopping lists
To do lists
Lists of pro’s and cons
Hit lists
Hot lists
Lists of rights and wrongs
Play lists
Top ten lists
Christmas wish lists
Listings for jobs
Listings for cars
Listings for houses
Listings for bars
Most wanted lists
Most haunted lists
Rich lists
Never poor lists
Fixtures lists
Endangered lists
Listed buildings listing
Schindler’s list
Missing lists
Lists of do’s and don’t’s
Long lists
Short lists
Porn star's lists of wills and wont's
Lists of countries with all sorts of rankings
Most sexiest lists to categorise our wankings
Lists of personal information to be stolen or sold
Lists of those deemed at risk
the infirm and the old
Friends lists on Facebook
Forgotten names found in my phonebook
Lists of lists
Lists everywhere
List 5 good reasons I should care
So many lists
Too many lists I say
I write lists
But hate lists
They make me listless anyway...

S A T U R D A Y , 1 2 M A R C H 2 0 1 1

The great plague of the age
Indolent dissatisfied days
Avoid the calling tv
Laptops and x-box
The way endless technology
Flattened out the crenelated day
And ignoring such distractions
Has a price to pay
In the vivid ridges of the solar sojourn
Come discomfort and silence
And indolence’s burn
I could kill zombies for hours at a time
I could give myself to a bottle of wine
If I was a teen I could turn to petty crime
But as an adult I shrug and say I’m fine

This century’s deadly sin
When there’s so much competition to win
Whisper or shout
Make them hear your voice
Don’t doubt
The way endless options
Race in and antagonise the day
Being lost to such distraction
Has its price to pay
Paralysis by overload of potential
Means there’s comfort
In letting the familiar be influential

I could drink Starbucks every day ten times
I could, out of season, buy tomatoes on vines
If I was richer, could holiday in sunny climes
But instead I shrug and say I’m fine

Embrace it
Listen to the inner voices
The ones that are mere
Run of the mill
As you idle by the window sill
Sit still
Listen to boredoms ring...
Hear anything?
Your own breathing?
Close your eyes
See the prize
From boredom can spring
A precious moment in time
Take a second
And then say I’m fine

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