Words words words

Sing, Muse, of that famous day, March 11th, 2005,
Which will ne’er be forgot whilst poets be alive,
When one brave man, acting all alone,
Took stand against the iniquities of the terrible mobile phone.

It was in court hearing in the City of Niagra Falls,
When somebody’s mobile phone took one too many call.
And did the moment pass, like on many another day? No!
Because the court was the court of Robert M. Restaino.

“Everyone is going to jail,” bellowed the fearless judge,
And because of his authority, from that position he would not budge.
“Every single person is going to jail in this courtroom unless I get that instrument now!”
But his anger and his majesty did not make them cow.

Then before his mighty bench he made them one by one to quail,
And then, one by one, he sent them off to jail.
And did he stop to think what the state commission might say? No!
Not the mighty judge, Robert M. Restaino.

All 46 defendants, in cases of domestic violence,
Yielded not up the phone in a conspiracy of silence.
So the police called in extra officers to deal with all the cases
And those that could not post bail were put in iron leg-braces.

That was the famous day, March 11th, 2005,
Which will ne’er be forgot whilst poets be alive.
But in the afternoon he relented and let them go,
That mild-mannered judge, Robert M. Restaino.

But then the state commission did meet and did glower
And for “an egregious and unprecedented abuse of judicial power”
The poor judge has now lost his annual $114,000 pay, O!
Poets salute the now unemployed Robert M. Restaino.

I got in touch with an old friend because I felt some worry for her
during the fires in the summer.
With a rann again, runaway, sing it to the rally, O!

She wrote back to say she was OK and had known something was about
to happen because she was reading stuff from Operation Terra.
With a rann again, runaway, sing it to the rally, O!

After a week of wondering what on earth to say to her I asked, I
hoped in a friendly chatty sorta way, if that was not a suicide
cult like Heavan’s Gate.
With a rann again, runaway, sing it to the rally, O!

She said it wasn’t, but those that knew …
With a rann again, runaway, sing it to the rally, O!

With Bill Haley we’ll be bopping
Unless we stop for shopping
We’ve got too much bloody trouble
So we choose the body double
To be or … there’s a third way!
Lishen caresfilly what de bird say
Solipsistic ego?
In that whale-back’d cloud we’ll go!
A tautololololological nonsense
To ease the coward conscience.
With a rann again, runaway, sing it to the rally, O!
With a rann again, runaway, sing it to the rally, O!

Ophelia! Don’t go, Ophelia …
With a rann again, runaway, sing it to the rally, O!

he’s called Harry but it’s not he’s really name
and he’s sittin’ happy w/ a chicken
gazing as the girls walk by, O!

people said that he wus dead, but he ain’t!
he’s lively happy harry chewin’ chicken
watchin’ wenches walkin’ by, O!

w/ he greasy auld cap an he bent auld stick
he’s sittin’ in the hedgerow chewin’ chicken
he’s eyes on the wenches waltzin’ by, O!

Hey! Mr.Flower, how you doing?
he sheeply grin, he twinklin’ eyes, chickee chewin’
eyes on the girls going by, O!

he count to one, he count to ten
chew that chicken, cock or hen
gazing as the girls go walkin’ by. O!

The wren, cocksure, swore at the cat. The cat
blushed and retreated with hate in its heart :
puss, pusskins, the inadequate tyger,
purring for milk round soft morning feet.

And all your thus’s and yr thences prove
nothing. An yr fine thoughts mislead us all :
I have to work with the assumption that
all these words from books have some meaning

and my memories of the birds, rivers
and trees of home and these night-time insects,
this sleepless night, another motorbike
passing, have some purpose : what else to do?

Of the old church the spire and the roofless walls
are left : in the silence a wren sings.

Originally thought to be obscure -
old man in rags collecting sticks and stones.
She said, and we will buy a pair of socks,
something warm for the winter. And a hat

too, because .. then she listed her reasons.
But explanations are not important :
the nightingale pours forth its sweet music
without giving you access to its notes.

Qceanic bird, its business the sea,
clipping the waves, maybe on an errand,
scented woodsmoke et cetera. Sunset
and the falling off, off the trailing edge.

Odysseus next seen without a stitch
(no snakes, slept soundly under bush on leaves).

(The Year of the Horse is nearly over :
in five months I will return to England
where there are my books, notes, references, in
boxes, waiting, as this damn crow will not.)

There’s nothing, the field really is empty,
the one concrete spot where nothing happens :
no matter how I search the horizon,
the bird has disappeared, there’s only me.

Nightmare : but sometimes a sparrowhawk would
be so high : there’s one in the stratosphere
watching the diurnal role, suspended
above mortal care - but no avoiding

subduction on terra firma : mistakes
or not, it must be so : what is silence?

Vir reid agin tha ‘d swit skryt’d grrls
inna nones an kall thaer pulchritudinous
tha ha nae ken o’ walking soft and slow
wi hon thorough wud an lying eye ta eye.

Agin they evil idea of hell
which they bring to earth to burn the weak;
agin they let they children think love’s words
- cunt cock and fuck - are insult and slander

vir reid. They have cut down the woods pour’d
their shite into the rivers and oceans
and hidden the stars in the polluted night -
they’d geld our weal and foul the very wells.

Likr Lyr beneath the fell sky on the blighted heath,
This is but a fool’s scalding, a sightless cry.

another farting engine goes by (on wheels)
and the world is a little less clean
strugglin’ w/ technology, we’m is
the small wayside flowers, grim encrusted
so so convenient. And comfortable too!
(all of the shopping goes in the back)
chickens do not wander across the road
nor children play nor minstrels sing

it’s so easy to use plastic - bags, bottles
more dioxin (those rings again!) cancer
pinchin’ the aesthetic (stealing it all away)
ken yon auld dogfox ? be a mite mildew’d
the ugly poisons he lives in
the toxic rats w/ peelin’ scabby skin

I fell in love with a taffeta punk
who had three steel rings in her labia
majora. Her labia minora
led to the usual hot pink fuck.

I didn’t know whether to ride my luck -
one kiss would have her moaning
her bony body out of her cheap clothes,
imploring - or my love ?

But she would laugh and say it can’t be so -
was it instinct that had her mock and jeer ?
and then I’d feel the three steel rings
molding ’round my cock and she
would have her wet and noisy climax and quietly go.

The crow is important. (This morning
I woke thinking of you - the girl, the woman.)
The crow is everywhere, in some still cold
birch forest, miles and miles if measured out.

Further desire - can we know the difference?
Calculate distance, argue, follow through.
But if there is no conclusion - the fear
again : an old-fashion’d sigh. To Newent!

One of the rituals was to look west
over the Severn to distant May Hill
on the horizon. We’d visit Newent
for the doctor and local shops. Later,

who watched from the oak trees, the next field, when
a Lammergeier performed in display?