How can you tell me you tell me the truth about space?
It’s a disgrace how
You lie to my face
I really don’t know how much more I can take
I know that your figures and facts are all fake
So just make no mistake
That I’m on to you
I know what you want to do
You want to distract
From the facts
Keep illusions intact
Think you can satisfy our curiosity
With some blurry desert snaps and call them mars and not expect some animosity?
No we’ve all known the truth
Since our earliest youth
This pretense that you’re all keeping up is uncouth
There’s footage if you look for it that can prove
That the moon landings never happened
Back in 1969
And this may come as a shock –it
Wasnt til 1980
That mister spoon flew in his rocket
To button moon
Across blanket sky
Now he’s been erased from the textbooks, forgotten, that cool little pioneer guy
It’s wrong corrupt and it’s rotten the whole bloody system’s a lie.
Is there liquid on mars?
Well yeah there’s caramel in the chocolate bars
But we’re being kept out of the loop
about the hollow planet full of green soup
the government want to hang us
Out to dry
Tell my why
They must lie
About our secret alien rulers: the clangers?
Who look down on us from on high?
All this stuff about little greem men? You must think we’re all dotty, you must!
The only alien life form that’s contacted earth was a spotty man with a bag of magic dust
I mean, bubbling blancmange! this ridiculous melange of half truths about UFOs
The flying object has been identified as superted’s spaceship
And everyone knows
That the truth will come out in the end
So check wikileaks soon
because I’ve got some emails to send
About what really happened
Between an ordinary teddybear
and his extraordinary friend.
When they had the special program on the telly just to tell us
Who’d be next to ride the Tardis I admit it: I was jealous
I wasn’t really bothered who the Doctor was, you see
I had inside information: yes, I knew it wasn’t me.
There’s been ten regenerations
And they’ve all of them been male.
Each new actor brining something quite unique into the tale
But while time travel seems plausible
Just hear the fanboys whinge
When you ask them what’d happen if their hero had a minge.
Now I don’t begrudge Capaldi, (he’s a lucky little fucker,)
But to me he’s still Caecilius mixed up with Malcolm Tucker.
And a higher profile actor in the role would seem to be
Quite a risky proposition. They’d be better off with me.
Would a genderflipping Timelord really stretch the realms of reason?
After all those strange adventures would this plot twist be such treason?
If the critics call it silly, say it’s gimmickry, well fine
Why should that upset the writing team who brought the world K-9?
I can be unhinged and manic, I can rock a pinstripe suit
I can turn all introverted and quite sinister to boot.
With a sonic in my pocket all my enemies would flee
It’s my turn to take the Tardis… maybe next time they’ll pick me!
CONTENT NOTE: This is a poem about suicide ideation. Take care of yourself.
People who talk about
Their months of torpid darkness
To bear their skin,
Blanked out by life,
Are “properly depressed”.
And here I am
I laugh, the laughter’s real
I can feel joy
Almost all the time,
Except that now and then
I look at buildings
Think about the fall
I look at pills
How many would it take?
In my hands
Fabric twists itself
Into a noose.
And it passes.
And I smile.
And carry on.
This one is about my favourite colleague from my care assistant days. Don’t know where it surfaced from.
She grins at me with pride
As we turn Mr Noakes in his bed. And indicates his pale and bony hips,
His pallid thighs.
No resident gets bedsores on her shift
If she can help it.
She imitates the nurse who trained her: spits the words
“PRESSURE SORE?! Just know you are not fit
To wear this uniform
If any of your patients suffer that!”
Donald, coming back from far away
Smiles, calls her a good lass, then drifts again.
I smooth the covers, put the pillow straight.
Abigail looks at me. I feel the question rising
Before it breaks the surface:
Why don’t I want a husband?
I should come to church with her.
The men she knows are nice, so handsome!
Perhaps I have not been treated right, before.
But in the end, she’s sure I won’t be happy in the life I’ve chosen.
It’s up to her to save me from myself.
I know that she’s repeating what she learned,
She wants so much to help me
Ease the pain she thinks I must be in.
I say that I will come to church next week.
If she will let me find a wife for her.
She chokes with laughter, shakes her head in wonder.
I’m coming to her from so far away.
But she’s a good lass.
This poem owes a lot to A Case Of Murder by Vernon Scannell. Structurally and, to an extent, thematically. There’s no cat, though.
It wasn’t alone she felt afraid,
But a group of grown ups could leave her cold
She was always shy, didn’t like to speak.
Kept her head down, did as she was told
Though her parents’ guests always found her cold.
Her dad would have liked a louder child,
With an impish grin and scabby knees,
But mother preferred her meek and mild
With her watered smile, and her whispered ‘please…‘
She was glad the girl wasn’t brash or bold
Though she sometimes thought her eyes seemed cold.
She wanted them all to go away
Stop asking her questions to make her speak,
When she couldn’t think of a thing to say,
So when no one saw she’d sometimes sneak
To the cellar stairs in the dust and mould
And feel as if she were centuries old.
But she’d found that she didn’t mind the cold.
And slowly she’d settle down to dream
Of a thousand worlds where she could roam
In the dust and dark where no one saw,
She would follow the paths to her true heart’s home,
In a silver tower, or a crystal cave,
With a frightened child inside to save,
She was shy and scared in the world she’d left;
But here she was bright and bold and brave
Nothing could stop her doing right
In the golden day or the silver night,
She could save a princess from endless woe,
Or break a spell on a hag hexed king
Till she’d hear them call, and the dream would go
And she’d know she was no good at anything.
Then her dad would shout and her mum would jeer
And they’d tell her things that she would not hear;
But she’d know that she was somehow less
With her frightened face and her dusty dress
Than the child they’d hoped she’d be at last;
They did not see the pain in her eyes
But smiling, they turned to greet their guests
And she slipped away when the moment passed
And sat back down in the dirt and dust
Where her world was bright, and though she’d cried
Her world is waiting and her daring quests
Get weird and wilder year by year:
They’ll not even notice when the day arrives
That there’s no one sitting on the stairs one day
As their brave, bright daughter rides away.
A quick poem for Chelsea Manning. Of course I don’t know if this is how she really feels. This is just what I imagine.
She steps through cell doors
And hears them slam behind her.
Smiles into the dark.
She’s felt imprisoned
Since forever. Since before
All of this started.
She only wanted
To set herself free with truth
No matter the cost.
Is it any wonder
That all of those secrets
Weighed on her mind
When her secret self
Unseen by those around her
Felt like a burden?
They can lock her up
Call her public enemy
Number one, and yet.
Chelsea is freer, now
- Seen for who she is at last -
Than she’s ever been.
We saw them in the distance, drawing closer.
There wasn’t really anywhere to run.
We tried to stop them, put up barricades
And armed ourselves, while knowing all along
They were already dead behind the eyes.
Their strength was always greater, far, than ours.
We knew we could not stop them, that they’d hurt us.
And now, it’s like they’ve always been among us.
We can’t remember how it was before
This neverending struggle for survival.
They do not kill us, often. Merely drain
Our blood, and keep us hypnotised and fearful.
We’re valued as are chattels, as are crops:
Loss is regrettable, a needless waste.
But since they came, we are no longer human
We called them monsters, now we call them masters
And can’t imagine fighting any more.
The closest thing to safety is submission.
All that we know of freedom is acceptance,
And if we bow our heads and pledge allegiance
We may be spared