Monday, 27 February 2012

Old Age

we’re all going to grow old
our knees will creak
our backs will ache
we’ll curse the youth and their newfangledness
their disrespect for our traditions
of disrespecting our elders

we’ll be cold
and the government will pay
for our heating and our food
and all of our teeth will fall out

so here’s a plan!
let’s become cyborgs
and replace our bones with superstrength alloy
reinforce our spines with cybertronic things
make our ears hear even the slightest of sounds
take out our muscles, and put in Apple’s versions
it’ll be expensive
but we won’t be in nursing homes,
at least.

and then,
if (when) it turns out we’re still
crotchety old souls with regrets and a grudge
even then, we’ll be free!
we’ll be fast and strong
and super like superman

then we’ll see
what those youths will do.
we’ll show them what’s what.


two datapoints do not a trend make.

Saturday, 25 February 2012


Once we were a roaring fire
But now we are embers
Mostly spent,
Our last few sparks
Trying desperately to once more
Illuminate the void.

What if
We became lightbulbs?


the non-rhyming bug bit me again. i will try to stop this from becoming a trend.

Sunday, 12 February 2012

He sits ten-headed

He sits ten-headed, 'pon a throne of gold
His sons would be god-killers, if gods could die
But though his hearth is warm, his heart grows cold
And he cannot stir it, however he may try

'Cross the sea a prince leaves home
A city bereft, a father betrayed
For fourteen years southerly to roam
To live and to die by the bow and the blade

In a forest of monkeys a king returns
Bloody from battle, he attacks his own
Entreaties for peace he scorns and he spurns
He cares only for glory and the throne

Near a sea of salt a bird does not fly
His eyes are the keenest, but his wings have been burnt
Though once he reached the sun upon high
Heavy was the cost of the lesson he learnt

A demoness killed, a bow broken down,
An old man stripped of centuries of power
Slippers that serve better than a crown
These are the things that herald the hour

All this he sees, 'pon a mighty throne of gold
Promised is he that his killer will come
From stock that is man, who cannot possibly be bold
War stirs again, and his heart begins to thrum