A Quick Fix
Hang my picture on your wall.
That’s all you have to do.
I’ll do the rest.
I know what’s best
for you.
This misery you’re going through
Feel free to pass on
to me.
I’m not like you.
I’m wise. I’m strong.
I’ll rid you of all your furies,
Your torments, your guilty memories.
Make over to me your brain’s keys
Along with the usual small change
At today’s rate of Faustian exchange.
Hang my picture on your wall!
Have no doubt
I’ll pest-control your mind, and fumigate
its every cubbyhole and shelf.
Take this opportunity
to opt out
of all responsibility.
Don’t hesitate.
I guarantee to find, and eliminate
Your fleeing, feeling self.
Keynote Address
Science here is dead,
he said.
We are here to find out
why. But there’s no doubt
that science here is dead,
he said.
We don’t seem to know just how to get ahead,
he said.
Though for craft and magic we earn praise,
in our climate commonsense decays.
Neither of our seasons is right for reason.
One withers sense, the other breeds decadence.
At this rate we’ll never get to outer space.
Figures show we’re not even in the race.
No one takes us seriously abroad.
Our best is mediocre, our worst a fraud.
Science here is dead,
he said.
Yet I’m proud to say
we have the expertise today
to analyse
to organize
to perform our own post-mortems,
pickle, label, shelve our problems.
We are foreign-qualified.
We know how myths are magnified.
First we’ll choose which blade to use –
sickle, laser, razor’s edge –
select techniques appropriate
(depending on whose grant we get).
Make a notch at the chin.
Slit down to the crotch.
Bore a hole in the skull.
Go right down to the soul.
Group one will probe the rot
the cancer at the throat of thought
the many-tumoured logic knot
which smothers faith and throttles doubt
but keeps us dreaming all the same
in and out and roundabout,
tethered,
tame.
Group two will isolate
the toxin in the cells of state
which made the blood coagulate.
Group three will extricate
what’s loosely translated as fate,
a ball and chain
within the brain
which, even when it’s rusted through,
retains a certain antique value.
Group four will undertake to find
old questions buried below the face
on time and space
on thought and mind
trampled in the ceaseless ooze
of answers, under the hooves
of dreams driven along a whirling road
with promise of release a goad.
No wonder science is dead,
he said.
Sickly mother, stillborn child.
It’s shocking that she’s still fertile!
We knew the outcome long ago.
Last year we met in Mexico,
the previous year in Rome.
Now we’re home.
The food I find quite excellent.
I carry my own mosquito repellent.
We meet again after lunch.
Be ready with your explanation suggestion strategy plan
excuse.
I have a hunch
none will be of any use,
he said. For
science here is dead,
science here is dead,
science here is dead,
he said.
Angle of Ascent
When did this train of thought
take wing?
Watching the shadows of wheeled hours,
hearing them hurtling down habit’s grooves,
I missed the moment of leave-taking,
the garlanded farewell,
the angle of ascent.
Flights of parrots sweep with green
the threshold of the day, preparing it for the sun’s
fresh design.
Riding in his chariot, I have left
all time-tables and maps
behind.
Below, the landscape falls at last
into obedient shapes.
Rivers assume a manageable size, and roads
are seen to reach their destinations.
The horizon respectfully
withdraws.