HIEROGLYPHICS

These strange symbols I cannot decipher
They mean nothing to me, nothing to me
From a far-off civilization that cannot speak to me
Cannot speak to me

The richness of their lives does not communicate
Their artifacts and rituals are inanimate
Their myths and their narratives are transparantly opaque
They are no more than squiggles on the page

There are no absolutes, there are no certainties
No phoney supreme being is coming through to me
There are no truths, no fixed moralities
Hieroglyphics are all I see

I had a story to tell
I had something to say
'Write it down' my teacher said
'Add it up' said another
They wouldn't listen to a word I said
It was alive and they killed it dead

These hieroglyphics claim a false authority
These hieroglyphics impose a tyranny
These hieroglyphics create a monopoly
Hieroglyphics are all I see

DEEP GREEN

What colour do you choose, my love
From the rainbow in the sky?
Let me know where you stand, my love
Tell me where your heart lies

Will you grasp a strand of red
Stained with blood and death?
Or spin an orange thread
For a fine sunset?

What do you choose, my love
From all the colours in the sky?
Let me know how you feel, my love
Tell me what you decide

Will you pick a yellow ribbon
To tie in your hair?
Will you sew a patch of blue
For a knee threadbare?

What do you choose, my love
From all the colours in the sky?

What colour do you choose, my love
From the rainbow in the sky?
Let me know where you stand, my love
Tell me where your heart lies

Will you weave some indigo cloth
To cut a fine new dress?
Or a violet scarf
To tie around your neck?

I am waiting for your word, my love
As I gaze up at the sky
I've already made a choice, my love
I know where my heart lies

I will pluck a blade of the deepest green
I will cling to life
I will hold it tenderly
Cherish it like a wife

What colour do you choose, my love
From the rainbow in the sky?

PARACHUTE

This aeroplane is out of fuel
The instruments are flashing
The pilots, they don't have a clue
How to stop it crashing
The passengers are unaware
The in-flight movie is a distraction
We fall too fast, we'll land too hard
Unless we take some action

The air is cool at this altitude
It is a long way down
Strap on this parachute
And float slowly to the ground

This automobile is out of gas
The engine is complaining
Its battery and tyres are flat
Its systems are all failing
We are so very far from home
I fear we could be stranded
Unless we ditch this pile of chrome
We will be empty-handed

The air is cool at this altitude
It is a long way down
Strap on this parachute
And float slowly to the ground

We have the technologies
We have the tools
But our mythologies
Are blinding us to the truth

Oh, this machine is out of juice
Its screen is slowly fading
Remote control is of no use
Its circuitry is ailing
Does this decline create a space
For our own entertainment
A chance to relocate
Our lost imaginations?

The air is cool at this altitude
It is a long way down
Strap on this parachute
And float slowly to the ground

IS THIS THE FUTURE?

it is an autumn evening bathed in sunlight
i am standing in the central reservation
of a busy dual-carriageway
the cars speed by in a blur
i have reached my favourite spot
under a broad horse chestnut
i stoop to conquer
or rather to collect conkers
dropping them into a large bucket
which i have brought along for the purpose
there are so many that i can afford to be choosy
taking only the freshest shiniest largest specimens
many are still encased in their shells
which yield easily under the gentle pressure of my boot
to reveal the ripened treasure hiding within
the browns vary from a warm mahogany to a dark teak
but it seems that the farther i wander
the larger the conkers become
each shell i crunch profers an ever fatter nut
behind me new shells rain down from above with a loud thud
it is as if they cry out
as they are offer themselves to the mad collector
the open-mouthed expressions
of passing motorists and their gawping passengers
seem to reflect my amazement
then suddenly the scene cuts, film-like
and i am watching myself
as if through the eyes of a vicarious motorist
who has pulled in at the roadside
i am spreadeagled across the broad trunk of this fertile horsechestnut
desperately trying to protect her from danger
a group of bedraggled men advances grimly towards me
axes in hands
the tree shudders as an axe rises high in the sky
then all is blackness

GAME OF MAKE-BELIEVE

Industrialists and environmentalists play the same game
Industrialists lie by pretending there isn't a problem
Environmentalists by pretending the problem can be solved

DESPAIR

God does not send us despair in order to kill us
But in order to awaken us to new life

OUR FOCKING CULTURE

'Where's focking mom?' the nine-year-old boy repeats impatiently
His smooth young face twisted into a nasty snarl
'Stop focking interrupting me!' growls his feckless older brother
Pausing the important conversation he is conducting with a pal
Dressed in a baggy pale grey tracksuit
Leaning back on the saddle of his stunt bike
He is, it seems, oblivious to his sibling's unfortunate profanity

GROPE

Stumble forward blindly
Grope in the darkness
Clutch at solid objects
Let go of certainties
Stagger and nearly fall
A sense of disorientation
Noises shotgun and ricochet
False friends call out
Follow instincts
Keep breathing
Dawn will break