Money

For many years,
Centuries...
Money was the great leveller.

Now
That the gap has grown wider
And corruption is rife
To fulfil the lavish dreams
Of lifestyles of the rich,
This is no longer the case.

Something new and unseen has come
To take the place of the ghost of lost money.
The new great leveller
Will be climate.

The Photo Taker

For now the results are beknown to but one.
His work is done. He captures in his craft a crowd,
Envelopes every feature, line and wrinkle of the individual,
And their involvement in events, unveiled in the group portrait.

For now there is one who caters for many.
His aim is to satisfy the subject itself,
Whose faces are shuffled, focussed and framed,
Whose lives are preserved in this time-honoured trade.

For now there is only one with forsworn insight,
Until all is revealed in black and white;
Only one mind with the gift to know all,
Only one eye with the skill to show all.

In the decades to come there will be but one,
Forgotten by those he chose to remember.
The only one without proof he was even present at the grand bash,
The ghost who is forever gone with a flash!

The Watery Prison

This dim cage.

Cold

Damp

Dark.


The iron bars fall like pellets of rain,
And surround me;

A prisoner of the law,
a prisoner of the pain.


In the grey clouds in the ceiling of my cell,
Occasional beams of sunlight,
peering through the cracks,

Enlighten me;
an inmate of Hell.


On the mouldy floor the water drops stain,
And wet me;

A prisoner of the law,
a prisoner of the rain.

Aspirin Over The Moon

How is it,
That on such a still evening,
With the slightest ruffle of warm breeze in the air,
With the softest frond of light radiating from the glow of distant planets,
And the fullest of bold yellow moons holding command over our horizon,
Against the deepest and darkest backdrop of true midnight sky,

How is it up here,
As we propose to drift silently through infinity in our hot air balloon,
Floating so effortlessly on unplotted course,
Where the complexity and majesty and absolute intricacy of the universe
Is unveiled and starts to reveal itself to our very conscience,
And the total extravagance of bearing witness to such a phenomenal privilege
Is brought a little closer into context,
Like a canvas taking form to the strokes of Van Gogh’s perfect mind,
That to try and even begin to fathom would bring lament to the most projected thought,
And cause the hairs on the surface of the back of one’s neck
To stand in unanswerable awe,

How is it up here,
In this theatre of timeless tranquillity,
In this orbit of wondrous reflection,
This picture of purest fertility,
In this presence of greatness,
In the absence of space,
Not ringed in by substance,
In this life altering spectacle,
This transcending, this blending, this melding of the worlds,
This expansion of the very meaning of the word beauty,
How is it up here,
That someone could ask for an aspirin?

UFO

The lunge is quick like an angry boar,
The launch is smooth and wind it draws,
A whirlpool of focus and immediate attention,
Circumstances forgotten while surroundings blur.
The body rises but the head goes first,
A shattering collision of reflex and nerve,
Shimmering decisions as the future unfolds,
The barrier broken, the army march forth.

Forgotten Dreams

Forgetting a dream or putting it on the shelf
is a slap in the face
That leaves a bruise that does not fade
(unlike the dream itself).
Storing it away in the back of your head or under the bed
is a waste of space
And once this process takes place
The power of making prosperity come true
is up to you
And letting your thoughts sleep it would seem
is just another forgotten dream.

The Running of the Machine

I have faith in the running of the machine,
Accomplishing goals it set out to achieve,
Reaching the targets for which we all strive,
Effecting profoundly every one of our lives.

I have faith in the running of the machine,
Performing profusely with superlative speed,
Turning huge profits in relative time,
Keeping things moving all the way down the line.

I have faith in the running of the machine,
Labouring intently to contend with our needs,
Presenting consumers an abundance of choice,
Allowing us all one individual voice.

I have faith in the running of the machine,
Chiselling its own significant niche,
Absorbing the friction while gathering wear,
Slipping efficiently through synchromesh gears.

I have faith in the running of the machine,
Permitting a piece of the globalised dream,
Paving the freeway for capital growth,
Lightening our lifestyle by lightening our load.

I have faith in the running of the machine,
Driving progression, driven by greed.
Pedalling the wealth through the process of work,
Propelling the health of a material world.

I have faith in the running of the machine,
Faith in the framework and faith in the scheme,
Providing incentive for endeavourous toil,
Rewarding immensely, dividing the spoils.

I have faith in the running of the machine,
That is what ethic will have us believe,
Evolving our species at phenomenal rate,
Good for the singular, good for the state.

I have faith in the running of the machine,
Such is the benefit it has (yet) to be seen,
Shaping the market, supply and demand,
Powerful forces, a controlling hand.

I had faith in the running of the machine,
Until I saw the ways of men;
Deception, corruption and honour denied,
and so I decided to hide.