The Paste Land

April's not the cruellist month

but perhaps the most hopeful of the year.

A layer of snow is not a warm blanket

for tubers that die when winter's severe.

It seems the banker is not a gardener

or even a proper poet at first,

more of an urban sermoniser

whose bleak dystopian images burst

upon a literary audience

romanticised for generations

by flowery verbiage so dense

it did indeed need pruning stations.

He led us all up the garden path

dispensing with the use of rhyme

in favour of the ice cold bath

of incongruous images all the time. 

Women

I have a high regard for women

as usually morally better than men,

more civilised and sympathetic,

more sinned against than sinning.

I always try to be polite

and wouldn't harm them for my life

but now no longer with a wife

why do abusive images excite ?

It's not just climate change that we're at war with;

there's also so much plastic in the sea,

so many species threatened with extinction

and all because of our fecundity.

We have so many problems still to deal with;

no use relying on technology.

It's not enough to save this ailing Earth by

replacing oil with electricity.

There's only one thing we can still be sure with;

the rest is almost triviality.

It's overpopulation is the problem;

reducing so many people is the key.

The uncurbed vanity of the powerful

is so often the immediate cause

of competition, conflict and

misery for many in unnecessary wars.

No mirage

Above the clouds

the chains of jagged icebergs

stretch the darkened sea

until ahead

the white sand dunes loom upwards

over plane and me.

Why are some women hooked on lip filler?

Extra bait to look more dishy?

But bloated lips sometimes look silly.

Seems to me there's something fishy.

Xmas and the barbarians

I guess the northern hemisphere pagans didn't like

those upstart Christians stealing their winter festival

but, for the serious gloomy newcomers to hike

something to brighten the dark was only sensible.

Now however the barbarians are fighting back

with tantalising orgies of indulgence,

exchanging presents of things we didn't lack

and decorative frippery in resurgence.

Commerce doesn't really bother with complaints,

totally intent on finishing the heist

by Mammon's latest pantheon of saints

where Father Christmas outramks Jesus Christ.