February 3, 2010 at 4:06 pm | Posted in Poem | Leave a comment
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Photo by AlaskaTeacher

My goodly mate Adam

Was kindly and smart.

He had a big brain and

He had a big heart.

His IQ was thrice mine

Twice doubled and then

Paired with the first number

Plus three score and ten.

His spirit was open;

His largesse a crime.

He gave ten percentiles

Though heโ€™d not a dime.

He moved through his life with

Attention and care.

He had all the fixings

He was all but there.

Yet ever so down in

The small of his back,

An unguarded portal

Open to attack.

A target for mean things

Like toothpicks and fluff

And burrs, glass and gravel

And other shite stuff.

Instead of a bandaid

Or maybe a shirt,

He twisted and strained to

Check out all these hurts.

This thing in its doing

Brought Adam to ground.

But when he arrived there,

Not a foe was found.

Ensconced in their bolt holes

Safe in their disguise.

They mocked and they jeered him

And bested his eyes.

Meanwhile the bright sunshine

Impatient to rest

Moved over the mountains

And on to the west.

Instead of a young man

With noble head high,

A hunched figure fretting

With bulldust and flies.

The day is not over.

The sun is not set.

Thereโ€™s time yet to rise up

And over things get.

So stand to, young soldier,

Thy head from the sand.

Your heart and your brain seek

To know this fine land.

Press on ye regardless

Of everyday crud.

F*ck all of the numbnuts!

And go unto God.

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Crazy Comrade

August 30, 2009 at 10:03 am | Posted in Song | Leave a comment
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The Author on a fact-finding mission, somewhere in Russia.

The Author on a fact-finding mission,
somewhere in Russia.

Contrary to appearances, this is the most complex of all my sung stories. Drawing heavily from the works of Alexander Solzhenitsyn, it is a love song of the most desperate kind, as sung by a prisoner of a dystopian Communist state.

Each line is both an attempt to distil one characteristic of the system and a specific affirmation of love as an all-conquering force.

[Sing with a heavy Russian accent, to the tune of Wild Thing by The Troggs]

Crazy comrade,

You make my sentence appear shorter.

You make everything politically expedient.

Oh crazy comrade.

Crazy comrade, I think I won’t inform my superiors of your subversive activities.

But I may still break under torture.

Come on and share this rotting turnip with me.

I queued for three days to get it. Yeah!

Crazy comrade,

You make salt mine work less arduous.

You make everything less painful.

Oh crazy comrade.

Crazy comrade, I think I can mend your tractor.

But I must travel to Minsk to barter for a fan belt.

Come on and drink this toxic potato liquor with me.

We have twenty minutes to curfew.


[Rock out.]

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