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They’ll Never Understand

They say we wasted our talents, well maybe

we did,

Like we could have been Picassos or heroes

of a cause.

They talk of us as prodigies, who’re they

trying to kid,

It doesn’t make us geniuses, just because

they’re dinosaurs.

They’re older than us, but who’s wiser?

We’re stupidly young, but not enough

to excuse,

Don’t want to come across as some

alien sympathiser,

But it’s them who’s reading the news.

And it’s us who’s making it.

Sometimes we all feel like storming

the senate,

But it’s never a good idea.

Democracy’s a comfort and the basic tenet

Is an absence of fear.

Theoretically.

They say we had our chance and we blew it,

well perhaps.

But we were never going to be presidents,

sure not kings,

They imply we had unique privilege, but fell

into traps

That they would have mentioned, the

wisdom age brings.

They’re wiser than us then, but only qualified

To say so, none of us has qualifications

to judge.

We finished on their podium but were

mysteriously disqualified,

Seems to me it’s them that bears the grudge.

But it’s us who’s accused of it.

Sometimes we all want to chain ourselves

to a railing,

But we know we’re going to fail.

This wind close to which we’re sailing

Is too strong to let us prevail.

Seemingly.

But oh, look at it now, the establishment,

Look at Murdoch’s stupid wrinkled arse,

Which is actually his face, or one of them,

I wonder if he’s satisfied with this farce.

Of his making.

They say it’s criminal what we wasted,

but come on!

Did they really expect us to revolutionise,

did they hell.

For all their proclamations they’d have put

money on

Us failing, and our failure suited them well.

Their wisdom doesn’t cut it on closer

inspection,

We may be young and stupid, but at

the border

That’s our Get out of Jail Free card, and

their introspection

Sounds like a primary school recorder.

Played by us. Played by us.

Sometimes we all want to throw a punch,

launch a missile,

Even though we know it can’t land.

Their eloquent cases are increasingly facile,

And they’ll never, never understand.

Unfortunately.

They’ll never understand.

Apple Zed

Apple may not be as clever as it thinks it is.

It’s possible – let’s face it nobody’s

that smart.

God had most of the best ideas but not

all of them;

He didn’t think of Apple zed, for a start.

That’s a sizeable oversight when you think

about it,

Press two keys and undo your latest blunder.

God’s not one for kicking himself

but honestly,

Is he regretting taking Sunday off, I wonder?

I mean, there’s even a reset button on

my boiler,

Even on a crappy PC you can hit ‘undo’,

If you’re in the business of creating a

flawed species,

They’re gonna screw up, you have to

think it through.

Every time I said something stupid and

got in trouble,

When the glass smashed, each time I tripped

and fell,

An Apple zed would have saved my

unworthy bacon,

Might still have the Lotus, still be married

to Michelle.

I mean, God didn’t even have a rival species

to deal with,

Not like Apple, he didn’t have to improve on

Amstrad or Sinclair,

Maybe it was complacency, but it can’t have

been easy,

Maybe the stress of it got to him – I mean,

look at his hair!

Then again, God didn’t get greedy, so cut

him some slack.

He didn’t supply man with a cable way

too short,

He didn’t make Mankind 10.0 without

a phone jack,

And the iPad was indeed pointless, as God

originally thought.

Apple may not be as clever as it tells us it is.

I hate its smugness, but the thing that

really sucks

Is that it’s hard to stay loyal to a God who,

however munificent,

Didn’t think of Apple zed, and didn’t go on

to make a gazillion bucks.

A street we walk down

Life is a street we walk down,

Along its weathered stones we tread.

First naked then later in a wedding gown,

Uncertain of the challenges ahead.

There are changes of pace and detours,

But no guidance from any satellite.

Accosted by the beggars and the troubadours,

Uncertain where we’ll lay our heads tonight.

It’s a one-way street we’re walking on,

We can deviate but we can’t turn back,

As the battery drains the phone we’re

talking on

Gradually fades to black.

There are failures and there are successes,

Threats and opportunities side-by-side,

Emphatic ‘no’s’ mingle with subtle ‘yesses’,

Every emotion imaginable on this ride.

Some of it’s a backstreet, some a mere track,

Some is paved with nails, some with gold.

Head looks forward, heart looks back,

Linger in Youngtown, there’s nothing

for you in Old.

Life is a street we walk down,

Between its battered kerbs we go on,

First in green country later in tough town,

Uncertain of how far we’ve gone.

There are enemies at every intersection,

There are friends there too, but

which is which?

The lights change and thoughts of

introspection

End up in the ditch.

We’re not the first to make this journey,

We may feel like Columbus but we’re not,

We can’t consult the guidebook or hire

an attorney,

We have a head on our shoulders, that’s

the lot.

Life is a street we walk down,

Every day we face the next bend, thankful

to be alive,

Whatever’s around it, headstone or crown,

We’ll let you know about it when we arrive.

Somebody is born, somebody dies

There will be consequences to the plans

we made, there always are;

Seems like somebody gets hurt every time

somebody else stands up tall.

The day arranges its winners and losers like

items at a Greek bazaar,

Somebody’s horse will come from nowhere

to triumph, and somebody’s will fall.

The white moon tonight, the clouds distracted,

They shuffle the light, they dish out

the atmospherics with flair.

Somebody is born, somebody dies, some real,

some parts merely acted,

You light a match and see my look of terror

illuminated in its glare.

There will be lasting damage when this is over,

there are always losers;

You think something is history, then years

later stumble upon its ill effects.

The day peoples its alley with the weary

echoes of dying substance abusers,

Somebody will stand on the bridge in

uniform, and somebody will scrub the decks.

The sharp wind tonight, the air unscented,

It cashes in on the uncertainty, allows autumn

to take the blame,

Somebody is born, somebody dies, some

forgotten, some long lamented,

You strike a match and see my look of disbelief

appear briefly by its flame.

Days and nights stand equally on guard

before us,

Each longer than the last, each armed.

We will defeat each one, but it will be

hard for us.

Their hearts are of darkness,

their doors alarmed.

There will be casualties once the fighting’s

ended, trust me;

Seems like somebody catches an aeroplane

every time somebody else lands;

The day’s credentials don’t look authentic but

I guess they must be;

Someone will triumph in the centre circle,

and someone will sit in the stands.

The sirens tonight, their message amended,

From a single incident to news of society’s

explosive decline,

Somebody is born, somebody dies,

some alone, some warmly befriended,

You’ve used your last match but I can see

your sadness, even if you can’t see mine.

I snorted a line of poetry

I snorted a line of poetry, it felt good.

Knowing it’s illegal felt even better.

Well, not illegal but misunderstood,

Like an inkpen, like a handwritten letter.

The cops raided my writer’s meet,

Piled like savages into the coffee shop,

Their wild-eyed fury kind of sweet,

A textbook game of good cop/wistful cop.

I’m a banned substance in 2024,

What I believe in, my values, my schtick.

Might need a priest hole under my floor,

The persecution in the air’s so thick.

This used to be my world, my manor,

Not anymore, compadres, I’m on a list.

I could tear my trousers like David Banner,

But the new world would resist.

Come, let’s be disappointed together,

Leave us to be disillusioned in peace.

We can drink wine and complain

about the weather,

Argue about the best songs from Grease.

I inhaled a Shakespeare sonnet, what a buzz.

Knowing the kids would yawn buzzed bigger.

It’s funny feeling the thing Will does,

Defining the truth of us, sketching our figure.

The council stopped my poetry reading,

I was on a street, you see, without a permit,

They don’t like old boys like me succeeding,

Not in public, but okay as a hermit.

I’m a banned substance in 2024,

You mustn’t carry me or intend to supply.

Might need one of those cameras on my door,

Next time the fashion police swing by.

This used to be my world, my manor,

Not anymore it isn’t, I’m condemned.

I appear to represent a significant spanner

In their plan, which we’ll hear in the end.

Come, let’s be disappointed together,

Leave us alone in our room to be proved right.

Let us slag off the forecasters and

predict the weather,

And reminisce about TV on Saturday night.

Times change, that’s okay, but we should

not need to,

Not if we don’t want to, who’s to say we must?

Deconstructing ourselves wasn’t something

we agreed to,

You’ll respect us more for it, once we’re dust.

I injected a gram of Ulysses, could’ve been

coke.

Knowing coke’s much cooler was the hit.

They recommended cannabis but I don’t

smoke.

Joyce don’t make me cough like that other shit.

Health and safety paid me a door knock,

Wanted an inventory of my library books,

Seized two Brontes and a first edition

Brighton Rock.

A crack den next door and we’re the crooks.

I’m a banned substance in 2024,

I’m mainlining literature, they don’t approve.

For neighbourhood bookworms who

want to score,

My place is basically the Louvre.

This used to be my world, my manor,

Not anymore, ladies, I’m cancelled, closed.

Exceeding my literary limit I set off

their scanner,

They came for me while I dozed.

Come, let’s be disappointed together,

We’ll read our books out on the fire escape,

At heights unwuthering, the harebells

and the heather

Can be our secrets, while the others vape.