The poems you see here were brought into being by a
process known as "writing one line and then passing the piece of paper to the
person on your left who writes the next line and so on until it seems to be
finished or to have ground to a halt". I know it's not a snappy title for the
method but it does explain why they are, as they are!
Here they are:
A Little Space
Clocks without hands
demand of silence
in which to vanish.
In this grim market, hide your wares,
has, has more than cares,
Money buys no more than sorrow.
So give it to
the poor - tomorrow;
Now, today must pay its fares
In broken shares, in
Everyone needs a cup of tea.
Anyone will tell
It's quite impossible to see
An argument to counter it.
Cherokees all drive Toyotas,
Freeway touring in
Zipping past bedraggled hikers:
'Hiawatha doesn't like
Once, long ago, I was a thug.
With greasy hair
and loathsome mien.
I hit a Teddy in the mug
And shouted something loud,
But now I live in Solihull
And have to wear a
suit and tie;
Unexeptional and dull
On every bed I made I lie.
wonder sometimes how, and why.
Keep on truckin', babe
A Yorkie in your hand.
Board the midnight stage
And wire the current band,
Truck on to the Everglades,
Keep another date,
Dodge between the ghostly shades:
Do not wait.
Truck along with Sting and John
Then, when all the crowds have gone.
This shed sniff dry of old sunshine
rigid in a cask of dream
Full to the brim of old rich wine -
to finish in!
Where stands the tall boy in the throng?
plots the course of Noah's Ark?
Why speak of Tightness to the wrong
When all are fumbling in the dark?
And where the short boy in the crowd?
the best out from the worst?
Who does presume? Who shouts most loud?
see a sober shadow, by what thin figure cast?
Boffins of the computer age
Met an ancient
Bashed him on his lumpy head
Until he turned on them and
'The meadows of the mind are wide
But all the crops, I fear, have
Angels don't accost me as they did,
everything revealed, another's hid.
The strategies encompassed and unfurled
I find so hard to take in this old world;
Angels don't accost me as
Music's lost its message, people yawn,
fragile truths are quelled and not reborn.
For staring at the atom finds us
In metal mazes which we best had scrapped;
Music's lost its
message, people yawn.
The fire tower stands for trees around
navies for the island race;
Most purposes we never found
The dark alone reveals the stars.
do the general's face.
Revile, and run off in fast cars
And come once
more upon his grace.
The one rests on the other till
The moving one
is also still.