Grand Plan Man

We all know that Elon Musk

has plans to colonise Mars.

Quite how the red planet’s rocks,

valleys, mountains and hills

will react to this coming event

is anybody’s guess,

but it probably won’t end well for them.

The best they can hope for

is a wildly dysfunctional democracy

and perhaps the introduction

of some Victorian sport to divert their attention

from the planet’s plundering.

 

We all know that Elon Musk

wants to colonise Mars.

What most people don’t know

is that what he is planning on establishing –

   is an ant colony.

He’s a man with big ideas,

the biggest of which being,

‘Can I convince people

that everything techy was my idea?’

His second biggest idea,

and his first and only original one,

is the dream of setting up an ant colony.

On Mars.

His epiphany arrived while he was listening to

a cover version of Bowie’s ‘Life on Mars’,

by, of all people, Adam and the Ants.

 

But I guess that’s just how genius works, eh?

Strewth!

Getting up too close to the mirror of poetry,

all you see are reflected egos

and stories which never happened.

White Noise

Take the writing from the page

and put it in the material world.

 

What was white, blank,

‘waste of space/paper’

is now silence.

Sun

Eyes closed, I stand and face

the unexpected autumn sun,

my skin taking delight

in the warmth of the rays.

 

The sun has been, and doubtless still is,

a goddess or god,

and it seems unlikely that people would worship

an entity which they didn’t believe

had divine consciousness.

 

With this in mind, I raise my arms

and proclaim a spontaneous

prayer of thanks.

 

Although the raising of the arms

was poetic licence,

and the proclamation was in my head.

 

There’s enough to contend with

on crowded railway platforms as it is.

New Restrictions

   after Dean Young

 

I don’t care…

 

if you have

learnt all of the ‘popular’

bits of Shakespeare in order to appear

more roundedly intellectual

than you actually are

 

or if you once saw a cloud

that looked like a bucket of gladioli

 

or you’re ambidextrous,

but only in one hand,

 

or how tall you are

 

or whether you prefer

the burnt orange bedspread

 

or you have too many pairs

of cheap reading glasses

 

or whatever tiddlywinks team

you claim to support

 

or if very blue

is your favourite colour

 

or if you really did meet

Alan Watts on the road to Damascus

 

or if you escaped from Alcatraz

for your summer holiday

 

or which wretched school you went to

or if you can’t watch a sunset

without running for cover

 

or anything that you could

possibly think of…

 

You can’t park here.

Eight Lines on a Page

 

It was quite the relief, arriving at a short poem – a mere

two quatrains long. So much silence on the page,

but just enough noise to take notice.

And then, of course, another unrealistic poet idea.

 

Why not write an entire collection’s worth

of poems with two quatrains only?

Why not? Oh, dear. I thought we were done with these obsessions.

Not to worry, though; it’ll probably never happen.

Page

 

What? Have you no words?

the blank page asks.

There must be millions of them

lining the bookshelves of this room.

It’s a positive shrine to words!

Why don’t you just get one of them?

I explain to blank page

that this is not how poetry works.

You must surely realise that your

prosodic explanations

flew straight over my head.

I am, after all, just a blank page.

But I don’t bother with a reply,

as I see that blank page

has now been replaced by

slightly defaced/scribbled upon page.

Oh, very observant!

Slightly defaced/scribbled upon/sarcastic page.

Giant Inflatable Cat

If you work hard all your life,

so the saying goes,

through school, career, and whatnot,

then, towards the end of it all,

you may find that you have enough

disposable income

to afford

a Giant Inflatable Cat.

This is the Ultimate Carrot

which dangles in front of each new

desperate generation:

the potential acquisition of

a Giant Inflatable Cat.

 

Originally introduced as a social experiment

which got ‘slightly out of hand’,

it sought to determine if people could respond positively

to setting themselves truly pointless life goals,

to wit – the ultimate pointless life goal

(arguably)

being the eventual acquisition of

a Giant Inflatable Cat.

Of course, other, lesser material goals,

can also be realised on the way,

as a spur, an encouragement.

That outboard motor for your harpsichord.

The modern house,

constructed out of anti-soundproof materials,

and misplaced hope.

The holidays in Spain.

Your next-door neighbour’s life.

But no

Giant Inflatable Cat.

No mortgage, no loan, no matter how

disreputable,

can be used to secure yourself

the funds for a

Giant Inflatable Cat.

You have to have cash

and evidence of retirement.

The greatest sadness in life

is when a fellow traveller

is knocked down too soon

by Death’s inescapable scythe,

for now they would never have the chance to own a

Giant Inflatable Cat.

 

They were a plague, these

Giant Inflatable Cats.

Appearing on crisp packets,

advertising hoardings, private journals,

funerals, ice-cream vans, skyscrapers, the Royal Insignia –

   everywhere!

And inserted into every online space

imaginable.

Yes, even there.

Quite what you do with your

Giant Inflatable Cat

once you get it,

is completely unknown.

Although admit it –

some of you kinda now want

a Giant Inflatable Cat.

Not a Poem about What's in My Garden

 

I could write a poem about what’s in my garden,

but, while it’s a perfectly nice garden –

   think small, walled courtyard,

   with climbing Malvern roses on one wall,

   the heads of the poet’s wife roses

   popping out to say hello

   from behind the recently cleaned

   old, wooden bench,

   itself a couple of feet away

   from the washing line whirligig

   and sun-lounger,

   both canopied by a navy-blue sail,

   diagonally opposite the round glass table

   and its matching plastic rattan chairs,

   behind which is the green gate

   for entrance and exit –

well, it’s really not worth describing

in a poem,

is it?

Stupid Questions

This week, I am into asking stupid questions.

What is the sum total of all humanity?

Is it right for a poor person to eat a millionaire’s shortcake?

Where can I get one of those?

 

Depends. What do you mean by ‘those’?

Your answer, ‘One of those as opposed to one of these’

had me pitying those tragically misguided souls

who claim, ‘Oh, there’s no such thing

as a stupid question!’

 

They really need to up the ante

with regard to the scope of their imagination,

such as it is, don’t they? Or is that

another stupid question?

 

And what of question the verb?

I question the existence of any chairs.

And don’t come all quantum physics with me,

because we both know that

our understanding of such matters can be measured

in Planck lengths.

 

Do you think that this poem should have ended

at line thirteen?

Now, that seems like

a valid question.

(The answer’s no, though, obviously;

isn’t it?)

 

Perfectly Useless

Everything, ultimately, ends up in
The Wastepaper Basket of History.
 
The vanishing of paperweights
from newly air-conditioned offices, for example.
 
No antediluvian fans in the vicinity
and obsolescence beckoned
for the heavy little bastards.
 
But you can’t put them in
The Wastepaper Basket of etc., anymore,
because history is now paperless –
 
although nobody knows,
as memos are no longer a thing.
 
Just like paperweights
and wastepaper baskets.
 
See that basket?
It’s a wastepaperless basket now.
 
Check it out to see if it’s full
of paperweights instead.
 
Check to see if it’s now a
paperweightwaste basket.
 
Or just another contrived attempt to coin
the perfectly useless neologism.
 
 
 
 

Smoked

I wish I was a curl of smoke,

Ascending to the autumn sky.

I wouldn’t have to speak to folk,

If I was but a curl of smoke,

(The product of a shifty toke,

Substantial as a weary sigh).

One day I’ll be a curl of smoke,

Ascending to a star-filled sky.

What Moves?

The surface of the lake is not so still.

A sailboat and its pilot catch the wind.

They glide across the surface with no effort.

 

The question of what moves the boat arises.

The wind says, ‘It is I who does this work.’

The sail replies, ‘Without me, you are worthless.’

 

In truth, it is the mind which moves the boat,

an answer which should need no explanation.

I sit here feeling Zen, but somewhat smug.

 

‘But what is it that moves the mind?’ says Myles.

The poem takes an unexpected turn.

If you have sons, be grateful when they’re wise.