Tuesday 28 August 2012

ORIGINAL SIN

 

A strange link exists between Lucifer’s tempting Fruit,
And a man who is wearing an expensive business suit.

Or any other clothing that we are forced to wear.
In public our bodies we must never ever bare.

By the Fruit’s temptation, all of Mankind did fall.
From the Tree of Knowledge, he condemned us all.
           
Knowledge and shame of our bodies, such was the Original Sin,
Our continuing foolish behaviour makes Satan’s gloating grin.

Religions and governments, they continue to strive,
Creating laws to help, Satan’s evil work to thrive.

Textile firms need us clothed, we follow them like sheep.
With Mammon’s generous aid, untold millions they reap.

We are born into this World, nude and unashamed.
But soon society makes sure our freedom, it is tamed.

Many would prefer to die rather than to be
Stripped naked, in public, for everyone to see.

Prurient interest in body parts we strive to keep hidden,
Only creates carnal thoughts and acts which are forbidden.

Zealous missionaries travelled from the West,
And soon the naked “savages” were dressed in pants and vest!

Upon the Fruit of Knowledge, reluctantly they feed,
Vanguard of exploitation, hatred, pain and greed.
           
But would it be possible, all humans to expect,
To treat each other’s bodies with reverence and respect?

Equate sex with nudity, you have to divide.
Accept all our bodies and never to deride.

Unclothed it’s sinful, but to be clothed is good.
That’s surely fundamental, easily understood?

But covering our bodies is the symbol of our sin.
God’s beautiful creation, shame concealed within.          

As the Bible rightly tells us, after Armageddon’s fight,
We’ll all be nude together, clothed in raiments of light.

THE AWAKENING

Night’s movement cast aside the sheet,
As prone upon the bed he laid,
To cool him in the summer heat,
To leave his nakedness displayed.

Naked, too, against him pressed,
Emerging from the sheets’ disarray,
An arm lying across his chest,
Her head against his shoulder lay.

Lying just as close as they can be,
A yawning chasm between them screams,
Through endless realms of unreality,
They travel in their lonely dreams.

But the woman’s travels are soon to pass,
Like one emerging from the deep,
Destroying the fragile dreams as glass,
And throwing off the cloak of sleep.

MARCH OF THE CLONES

(6 June 2004)
See the clones walk up and down,
In every city, in every town.
Fashion victims in every way,
“Baseball caps” please go away.
“Baseball caps”, a generic name,

For all of those who dress the same.

You’ll never find one on my head,

Even if you saw me dead!

Whatever happened to rebellious youth?
Punk’s anti-fashion’s look uncouth?
Now whole families look so sad.
Why would a kid dress like his dad?

Lager swilling drunkard, one of the boys,
High decibel racers, cars for toys,
Anti-social yob and the petty crook,
Well, what a surprise, they all have that look!

Adidas, Nike and the rest,
Brand names and logos, buy the best.
But brand names and logos only hide,
Globalisation’s sinister side.

In foreign lands, workers must slave,
So those same brands their profits they save.
For a pittance they work, in sweatshops they toiled,
Capitalists use that sweat, keep their wheels well oiled.

It’s just a sign that this nation,
Is under attack by Americanisation.
As all the world and every land,
Slowly succumbs to American bland.

I DON'T DO POEMS

 (26 April 2004)

Poems? Poems? I don’t do poems,
Especially if you want me to, so
Don’t even think to ask,
Or else I’ll get my coat and go!

Oh no, you’ve gone and tricked me now,
But no you’ll never do again.
If you make me write another rhyme,
I’ll simply have to go insane!

THE CHAIR

(25 April 2004)

I have no chair in which to rest,
No place that I can call my own.
But one day hope to find a place,
A place that I can call a home.

Ah, a home, what could that be?
A thing not known for many a year.
But come it will and with it bills,
Which, alas, fills me with fear.

But what of now, and what of chairs,
The original topic of this piece?
I’m lying on my “chair” right now,
Like a prisoner waiting for release.

A bed for a chair must now suffice
Although best intended for sleep.
A chair would stop an aching back,
And help a better posture keep.

When the time comes for me to choose,
A sofa I’d buy instead of chair.
That extra space to lounge and lie,
And space for visitors to share.

A sofa means welcome, does not reject,
It’s arms outstretched and affable.
And even when singly used you sense,
That potential of sharing is palpable.

A single chair, on the other hand,
Permits one sitter in restraint.
Except for lovers, on each other sitting,
Two sharing a chair would cause complaint.

MODERN CHRISTMAS (2003)

Kerching merrily on high,
Hear the tills a-ringing.
Now’s the time to buy,                     
Of excess food and drinking.

Glor…orious, - just spend your cash this Christmas.
Glor…orious, - the dream of ev’ry business.

So put that Christ child by,
His birthday has no meaning,
And Mammon, hail Him high,
While frazzled nerves are screaming.

Glor…orious, - and stuff the debt this Christmas.
Glor…orious, - and curse the Scrooge, his Christmas.

STRANGE COUPLETS

Four I remembered from a number as I was falling asleep (1998)

If the mighty Woggle falls from your grip,
Into untold anarchy this land will slip.

The ancient Casket opens, reveals the sin,
The tissues may not be square within!

From bright Hyperion he falls to Earth,
But bumped his knee before his birth.

If Guardian Angels should fall from grace,
God raises them to their rightful place.

ANTS

(1 July 1997)


Like puny ants, our teeth we gnash,
And rail against the thunder’s crash.

From pregnant clouds the rain it teams,
To dampen all our fragile schemes.

FACE/MASK (1997)

Start of a diary entry (13 July 1997)

Those slow to judge and those who ask,
Who penetrate beneath the Mask.
Find untold riches lay within.
And those who don’t? Loss is their sin.

I’d considered writing all in rhyme,
But lack the patience or the time.
Instead, I’ll display some restraint,
And tell you of my one complaint.

FACE/MASK (14 July 1997)


Those slow to judge, which dare to ask,
Who penetrate beneath the Mask,
Who enter now my Cerebral Dome,
The place my Soul must call its home.
Cast down their hatred, fear and sin,
Find hidden treasures lay within.

And those who don’t? Away they turn,
Misjudgement in their eyes does burn.
So let them burn, I’ll care no more,
Above their petty minds I’ll soar.

A SHEEP FARMER'S TALE - or - MONEY FOR OLD DRIED LEAVES

 (3 July 2007)


“There’s one of mine,” the farmer said,
“I recognise my brand.”
As a ‘sheep’ walked idly past,
A cigarette packet in his hand.

The farmer's friend laughed out loud,
It really was a joke.
The serious money they could make,
Just by selling smoke!

As long as the taxman took his cut,
They could really make more dough,
With one born every minute,
Too stupid to say no.

“Oh look, there’s rebellious youth,
See them think they’ll not be told,
But see them smoking, unaware
Their very lives are bought and sold.”

“It’s an establishment activity,
And so they pay their way,
So multi-nationals and governments,
Grow richer every day!" 

“That may be so,” the farmer warned,
“But western markets have declined.
Be thankful for new markets, as
The third world keeps our pockets lined.”

“Foreign peasants, a godsend are,
To keep the wolf from the door,
They never bleat about their health.
Hooray for the ignorant poor!"

“As generations before them,
See them join the placid flocks.
We’ll fleece them and fleece them,
Till they’re in their wooden box!”