Month: July 2017

Can’t get going

With this poem I thee glue to’t bed

With my singing I  thee shamed in ‘t shed

I’m that honest, we were never wed

With my gurglin’ voice, I drove him mad

Is Grandad ‘ere?Tell him  mi finger’s red

Weers our Mam?Am ‘ungry  for  new bread

Am just a girl from Nelson with his head

 

We used to say Am not I am

And we said in’t   shed not in the shed.We had no shed except for coal as we had an outside closet

And  we called mother, our Mam or mi Mam

My mother called her father, Mi Dad

And her sister,our Lizzie.

I called my father Daddy and as he died he  never got to be Mi Dad

Winter darkness

Four o’clock– and the sun’s still glowing
Four o’clock – of a colour bright day,
Up above, pink-tinged clouds are sliding
Down still sky, sweeping sun away.

Come back sweet sun, do not leave us.
Come back bright beams, I need sunlight
Down on earth, it’s witch moon darkness,
When your golden face is out of sight.

I see the orange tinged clouds extending
I feel such sense of sky lit bright.
But gently now, the mist surrounds you
And sweeps away that happy sight.

Into velvet blackness sinking,
The dazzling, dreaming darkness falls.
Goodbye to haste,and glare, and sunshine
Time for reverie, night time calls.

On the night-trains gentle journeys,
On this trackless train, we ride
Strange visions and haunting pictures
We will see in dreams’ designs.

In my night train, I’ll be happy
In such rich deep reverie.
We visit darkness in our sleeping,
There we learn its ecstasy.

Now we may have no God to hold us,
In His Hands of Living Love,
What will help us trust deep blackness
If there’s no Saviour from above?

Must we enter that great darkness,
Go back to dark from which we came,
Into dark all living creatures,
In that darkness find our home?

Trust the dark unknown, to hold us,
Trust the dark ,both night and day.
Must we walk into that darkness
And trust it is our safest way?

Casualty by Seamus Heaney

Photo0725 (1)

Inverted photo of table lamp

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/51607/casualty-56d22f7512b97

 

“But my tentative art
His turned back watches too:
He was blown to bits
Out drinking in a curfew
Others obeyed, three nights
After they shot dead
The thirteen men in Derry.
PARAS THIRTEEN, the walls said,
BOGSIDE NIL. That Wednesday
Everyone held
His breath and trembled.   “

The funny bone

Last week I felt happy all  alone
Remembering how I wound my mother’s  wool
Doing nothing,there I felt at home

But now I’ve banged my  pointed funny bone
I sit here clutching elbow, keeping still
Last week I felt happy and alone

What is it that makes the elbow prone
To throbbing  as it hits the window sill
Doing nothing,how I felt at home

When no-one hears ,there’s no motive to groan
Though eyes can weep when pain makes us feel ill
Last week I felt happy and alone

Would we turn to statues of grey stone
If no-one ever hears our crying shrill
Doing nothing,how I felt at home

My elbow is alright but I’ve no will
I’ll have to let Len Cohen sing me well
Last week I felt happy all  alone
Doing nothing,thus I found my home

 

 

What to wear at a funeral

  • http://youtu.be/m5TwT69i1lU

    Just before Stan’s funeral,  a heatwave began.Mary realised her outfit which her sister had chosen was too heavy.
    So she called into a small department store full of delightful garments.Unfortunately, most were more suitable for a nightclub than a chapel.A black dress caught her eye.It had a somewhat low neckline which was decorated with a deep gold band.
    Mary decided it was more suitable for Queen Cleopatra than a British woman.After a few minutes ,she found a lovely thin black jacket and a long drapey skirt.She rewarded herself with a large cup of coffee and observed the scene.
    Many of the women were wearing the dresses Mary had thought were for dancing and nightclubs while the rest wore jeans with T shirts saying:No size Fashion or Free women now!

    Most of these women were rather plump so their busts stuck out with the words going up and down some invisible contour lines across the small mountain range, their bosoms resembled.No wonder when the counter in the cafe was stacked with almond croissants.Definitely an occasions of sin and for sin.

    Photo1404
    The next morning Mary showed her new outfit to Annie.
    You can’t wear that, Annie screeched.The skirt is blue!
    Well if it is it is dark blue, Mary cried.It looked black in the shop.
    You will have to go back and change it.And you must buy some makeup too..
    What, for a funeral?
    Yes,said Annie who was wearing pink and purple eyeshadow from Pax Wacter combined with sun protective foundation by Minxette in deep beige.Her lashes were dyed purple and her brows had been groomed in a way which gave the impression she was constantly in a state of severe surprise or shock.
    Her thick juicy lips were painted a lurid orange from Revlon of Timbuctoo and Shanghai which meant that any man who kissed her would never be able to conceal their sin from their wives or partners.How hard life can be at times.Or even all the time.

    You must dress entirely in black and it will make you look pale but don’t worry you can have some of my makeup Annie said loudly

    Will the colour suit me, asked Mary plaintively.

    I think you can wear any colour now your hair has gone that horrible shade of pale.
    You are a bit rude, Mary said but I take the hint.

    http://youtu.be/Mb3iPP-tHdA
    After Annie left Mary phoned an old friend of hers and asked him what he thought of her clothes problem.
    Black and blue will look very good, he told her.As long as it’s dignified and dark the colour is immaterial.
    That’s nice, Mary thought, as she hated shopping and was unsure how much income she would have as a widow.
    Being practical a dark blue skirt is something a woman can wear any time whereas black is not so good in the daytime.
    Mind you, after you visit any town centre in Britain you will see sights of women in strange and tight clothing that will both amuse and appal you though most of us are used to it now.
    My goodness, Mary said to herself, what hard work it is losing a husband.I should have hired a boat and thrown him into the sea or even buried him in the back garden.That would have been better than all this kerfuffle.So she decided to turn her mind to higher things.

    http://youtu.be/CZipvBo3_Z4

    http://youtu.be/ihx5LCF1yJY

Remembering life is sacred and too brief

When we are made so lonely  by our grief
When we lose the loved one of our years
Remember life is sacred and too brief

Some may gain their comfort from a priest
Other by the emptying of their tears
Can we be too careless in our grief?

Blown away like one dried autumn leaf
Disconnected with our hearts so seared
Remember life is sacred and too brief

Death is more forgiving to the least
We must share the anguish and the fear
When we are made  too lonely  by our grief

When we feel we’re falling piece by piece
We wonder how to dignify by prayer
Remembering life is sacred and too brief

Just as the sun will rise up in the East
Despite it  dying daily everywhere
We are all  made   lonely  by our grief

Life is hard and often it’s unfair
We may feel so much we cannot bear
When we are made   lonely  by our grief
We remember life is sacred and too brief

A mere shroud

Lonely - Touching SpaceSome  ddwell   not in their  too human flesh

They  inhabit not their  feelings nor their breast

To be with them is  vile, but I digress

I’d rather live with cats and holy ghosts.

if we fail to enter our true being;

With accident and trauma felt too soon

Or. with a mother tormented and unseeing,

We linger sadly, helpless as her moon.

Is it possible to come home to ourselves

When failure marked our earliest attempts?

Will love arise spontaneously  dissolve

When often forced back by our own dissent?

Will night’s darkness  be  more than a  mere  shroud

Covering with its cloak the  selfish crowd?

With this poem.I thee duly read

7613537_5314b5b2fd_m

With this poem, I thee  truly read

With all my wilful goods I thee endow

I know not what your other lovers said

But will they lend you horses or a plough?

Without a handshake, we are nearly dead

With all my mercies, joy, I thee endow.

I know not what the judging angels said

But we will get to heaven, some other how.

With this promise, I thee  truly take

To be my lawful and unlawful mate.

And after all, it’s for thy  pity’s sake

I consent to eat my dinner from your plate!

For prayers and vows confused  have made me wild

I hope God’s mercy makes  us lovers mild

Poetry as enchantment

Lilium-African-Lady-2

http://www.thedarkhorsemagazine.com/danagioiapoetrya.html

This is well worth reading

Extract

Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises.

—Caliban, The Tempest

let me begin with three crucial observations about the art of poetry. First, it is the oldest form of literature. Indeed, it is the primal form of all literature. Poetry even predates history because it not only existed, but flourished before the invention of writing. As an oral art, it did not require the alphabet or any other form of visual inscription to develop and perfect a vast variety of meters, forms, and genres. Before writing, poetry—or perhaps one should say —stood at the center of culture as the most powerful way of remembering, preserving, and transmitting the identity of a tribe, a culture, a nation. Verse was humanity’s first memory and broadcast technology—a technology originally transmitted only by the human body. In Robert Frost’s astute formulation, poetry was ‘a way of remembering what it would impoverish us to forget.’

Frost’s pithy definition is usefully ponderable. He calls poetry ‘a way of remembering,’ which is to say a mnemonic technology to preserve human experience. He claims the loss of what it preserves ‘would impoverish us,’ which is to say that poetry enriches human consciousness or, at the very least, protects things of common value from depredation. Finally, he asserts that poetry maintains these virtues against the human danger ‘to forget.’ Here Frost acknowledges that the art opposes the natural forces of time, mortality, and oblivion, which humanity must face to discover and preserve its meaning. As Frost s

“Inside the mind of poetry”

6419415_506e1f1602_m

Inside the Mind of Poetry

 

“The greatest lines in poetry are infinitely quotable while having no definite meaning. What is a mind of winter, and why must one have one? It doesn’t matter. Wallace Stevens’ greatness lay in his ability to produce these kinds of anti-aphorisms, seemingly wise but ultimately ungraspable: Thought is false happiness. She sang beyond the genius of the sea. The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream. And, most pointedly: The poem must resist the intelligence / almost successfully. (Or, nay, successfully!)

I believe that to read poetry, one must have a mind of poetry. You must enter a state where you come to understand meaning-resistant arrangements of language as having their own kind of meaning. It’s quite similar to those Magic Eye posters from the ‘90s: If you haven’t figured out how to look at them, you can’t believe that anyone really sees the dolphin. (This metaphor has its limits, making learned skill seem like an on/off conversion; too, with poetry, even when you’ve mastered “the trick,” not everyone sees the same thing.)

Is this “negative capability”? I’m not sure.

Negative capability, as described by Keats, is rather delightfully poetic in itself, a form of imitative fallacy in criticism, a mental onomatopoeia. It seems clear enough by his own definition: “when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.” But it’s so often badly paraphrased, in conversation and in print; Wikipedia defines it as “the capacity of human beings to transcend and revise their contexts” (to their credit this merits a “citation needed”). A concept so frequently muddled must be inherently mysterious and as such, perhaps, a shibboleth; if you don’t understand negative capability you won’t understand poetry.

There are probably people who go through life with a permanent mind of poetry. I am not one of those people. I fall in and out of it, and not at will. As I write this, I am not in it, and have not been for three or four months, which is to say, I have not been able to focus on or become absorbed in any book of poetry. Oddly, I have continued to write poetry. I continue to think about poetry, almost daily. As my Twitter feed reveals, one doesn’t need a mind of poetry to talk about poetry.”

Too intelligent?

Photo0692https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2013/dec/28/can-you-be-too-intelligent

 

“You could, of course, say that intelligence, properly understood, is a combination of wisdom, good judgment, logical dexterity and factual knowledge, and by definition, you can’t have too much of that. I’d like to agree, but I fear it is already too late to reclaim the word “intelligence” for this well-rounded cognitive amalgam. Intelligence has been broken down into small parts, and we can rely on each one to excess.”

A song is sung, sprung with the babbling I

The mind is like a river as it flows
From small beginnings to unending sea.
Endless and elusive  what it shows

As in the mud, the stark blue iris grows
So with life itself,  from dark we see
The mind is like a river as it flows

The boat rides on the surface as it goes,
From what once was to what is still to be.
Endless and elusive,  what it shows

Before we learn to speak, the music holds
The   baby and the mother company
The mind is like a melody  that flows

A duet  comes to life and life it moulds
A song begins sprung with the babbling I
Endless and elusive, life to show

In lucid realms awakening, we enfold
The many parts of self that outward cry
The mind is like a melody  that flows

Come now sleep, where dreams of mothers stray
Engaged with all the fathers of desire
In the mud, the still blue iris grows
The mind is like a river in full flood

 

Gwyneth Lewis

Garden wall ivy.jpg

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2005/dec/17/familyandrelationships.family

 

” The less literal we are about families, the more the best qualities of that unit can be woven into wider, social relations. We have many offspring from our behaviour and only some of them are children.”

At the gate by Henrick Norbrandt

leg

http://www.poetryinternationalweb.net/pi/site/poem/item/16681/auto/Henrik-Nordbrandt/AT-THE-GATE

AT THE GATE
1.
In the dream
at the gate to your grave
you stopped me
with the same words
I had spoken in a dream
where I died before you

so now I can no longer dream.

2.
Rusty, and on squeaky hinges
all the gates I have ever
seen, heard, or described
closed one by one
under a grey sky.

That is all there was
in my mind, earth.

3.
What can I say about the world
in which your ashes sit in an urn
other than that?

4.
On every trip you stay ahead of me.
On platforms I see your footprints in fresh snow.
When the train starts to move
you jump out of the back carriage

to reach the next station ahead of me.

5.
Outside the small towns with their sleepy street lights:
stadiums bright as capitols.

The lights glinted off your glasses.

Where else should you look for the ring
which, the night the power went out,
rolled under the bed and was gone?

6.
“I miss you, too”
were my last words
on the telephone
when you said you missed me.
I miss you too, Forever!

7.
You are gone.

Three words. And not one
of them
exists now in any

other context.

More Profumous

P1000006

I have spent ten thousand hours just writing
Poetry and thoughts, some  pretty humorous
I tell you now, my  writing  is exciting

If I were  male tiger I’d be biting
Eating little creatures , oh so numerous
I have spent ten thousand hours just writing

I clean  my nails and all the kitchen gratings
While hoping politicians will get more Profumous
I tell you now, my  writing  is exciting

With  my  female intellect so  under-rated
I managed to be a mite consumerous
I have spent ten thousand pounds on lighting

I believe  that poetry is delighting
I write on paper  leaves , they claim deciduous
I tell you whoo, my writing is exciting.

 

I know my inspiration’s pretty wonderous
And God has a loud voice some  folk call thunderous
I have spent ten thousand hours just writing
I tell you now, my  writing  is surviving

 

Aggression diary by Anne Marie Austin

Horse

https://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2015/apr/27/poem-of-the-week-aggression-diary-by-annemarie-austin

 

Aggression Diary

They had become concerned about him and started 
to keep an aggression diary.

The leaning is a clue. Intent controls
the spine’s tilt towards whatever.
See how he slants in his not-so-easy
chair, ignoring the burbling television.

Try to know exactly where he’s looking.
The file shows the outside signs
of inner roaring can be small. A knuckle
gone white. The stretched-out throat.

*

Piranesi’s Carceri: a man is racked,
the only sky above shows through a giant
treadmill, several pulleys dangle ropes
over indeterminate spiked objects.

Be careful what the eye feeds on
when it can’t get out from inside
the walls and all the stairs lead
nowhere, the drawbridge drawn up.

And consider the weaponry to hand
in fire, bunched cloth, a stone dislodged…

*

Lightning ignited a dry tree in the garden.
He leaned still farther into the room
from his chair. Flames perhaps played
intermittently in the window glass.

The other spread his arms like a fierce
swan its wings, falling backward.
There was a white rushing, flailing.
There were teeth on show on both sides.

And then, and then: what you would, expect
in cries and interventions, heat quenched
eventually, the furniture rearranged,
a return to the vertical through the house.

For comments visit the site marked above

The light of candles turns into blue flames

dPhoto0725 (1)

Inverted light turns blue like Plath moonscapes
The light of candles turns into strange flames
Thus  to breed  our fears, we ,stupid, ruminate

From a vantage point outside that evil draped
We see the loss and show the red of shame
Inverted light turns blue like Plath moonscapes

From our own dead-heads may we escape?
We want to grow and not  allot more blame
As brooding  on our fears, we ruminate

The ghost of Plath  shall  linger in dark shapes
And stutter as  the dead call out her name
Inverted light turns blue like Plath moonscape

And women murmur, shall I  too be raped?
All I want is sharing life and pain
Don’t brood  on your fears, they’ll germinate

 

In our sleep, we see the theatre’s dreams
Hear our minds bemused, old warriors’ scream
Inverted light turns blue like Plath moonscapes
Thus bleeding  from our  hearts, we  navigate

 

While alive

No human being is perfect, yet we strive
We pray and fast, denying that we sin
We aim to be God’s equal, while we live

It may be fear which alternates with pride
Blocking out the good that lives within
No human being is perfect, yet we strive

Donations to the poor  we sometimes give
Yet this alone  gets no attention
We aim to be God’s equal, while  we live

Terror acts as an unworthy guide
And,similarly  acts pretension.
No human being is perfect, yet we strive

God is  perfect, souls too proud explode
Acknowledge and admire the great divine
We cannot be God’s equal, dead, live.

Ourselves or friends we foolish idealise
No human  should be thought  of as all wise
No person can be perfect, yet we strive
We want to be God’s equal, while we live

Like sea and sandy shore

https://www.britannica.com/event/Synod-of-Whitby

 

127032-004-75BA0538

My blue mug’s striped like sea and sandy shore
I love my memories of expansive sands
The mug is round  so it can hold much more

The image of the mug opens a  door
To access spaces where my dreams command
My blue mug’s striped like sea and sandy shore

Stretched blueness  takes me to my deepest core
Where by my inner  heart I understand
The mug is rounded well and gives me more.

On the beach, the salt stuck to my pores
Like Whitby where  my spectacles were gummed
My blue mug’s striped like sea and sandy shore

 

The Synod  of historic Christian lore
Held at Whitby  where tall cliffs descend
Reminds us how the inter-faith’s  still sore.

And how my deepest thoughts are made disband
To submit to God and  that beloved hand
My blue mug’s striped like sea and sandy shore
The mug is holding memories that allure.

 

 

Because of human stares,  the sky was flushed

Shy of human eye,  the sky was flushed
A rosy red more delicate than grace.
Why, high above the earth, its blood had rushed

By electronic media, light out-pushed
Until we seemed to see a tortured face
Shy of human eye,  the sky was flushed

Towards this  bleed, this rash, the trees rose lush
Like forests of the tropics, they embraced
Where high above the earth, the blood had rushed

Its weight could sink Titanics, even crush.
The moon and stars would, screaming, be effaced
Because of human stares,  the sky was flushed

Too much has risen for the  heavens to grasp
And down the blood will stream .vermilion traced
Downfall follows, hear  our warheads  crash

Well, tell us what exactly is the case
You say an unknown being lost their face.
Where shy of human eye,  the sky was flushed
Why, high above the earth, its blood had rushed

 

 

 

That’s life

33xv

One said she was going to gas herself
I told her this North Sea gas won’t kill you
The other imagined sleeping pills
But Valium won’t do it either.
Life is so hard now for hysterical women who are not afraid of God.
They have to walk off a cliff but there are none near here.
So I tell them, that’s life, my dear.
Why not move into a 24 storey tower block?
That will broaden your scope.
While there’s life there’s hope.

This is not it

Impossible to move on because
Between any two numbers
There are infinitely many other numbers.
Time does not consist of equal increments
I saw the car fast moving towards me
And time slowed down, it was ten minutes
Before it hit me.
Elegantly I flew  into the air, second by  infinitely long second
Down below I saw life on a huge TV Screen
I was no longer there.I saw a Hand turning a wheel
Clockwork TV, I knew it.
I was flying orthogonally to the earth
I had a new perspective.No fear
A calm and endless peace held me.
Gravity interfered.Thin as I was,
I was not infinitesimal
Otherwise, I would never have come back
All I knew is, this is not it.
The tortoise won the race.

To imitating men by caring less

16174721_851533688319844_842650217940363345_nWomen won the freedom to conform
To imitating men by caring less;
To political correctness,  dress, reformed

Everywhere the male is still the norm
And that is how we females have to dress
Women won the freedom to conform

Though secretly, we aim now to suborn
Unwilling to admit the weariness
Of political correctness,  dress, reformed

Now it’s  sexual harassment reborn
To admire women, more or less.
We all won the freedom to conform

The book of rules is burned, by gum, it’s warm
Trousers are the “holy” way to dress
For political correctness and a life reformed

No more will matrimony be well blessed
The arts of love no longer are addressed
Women won the freedom to conform
By politically correct new slogans ,arm to arm

But not delivered Saturday unless you pay £3.50 more!

I have bought something and asked to collect from Argos.It is sitting at the Royal Mail depot because today is Saturday and the seller did not look at the website where it is possible with skill to find Saturday is ££3.50 more.
Argos is !/2 mile from the Sorting Office.But nobody can collect the parcel till Monday

From Royal Mail website

Royal Mail Special Delivery [Nothing about SATURDAY HERE]
Guaranteed by 1pm®

100g£6.
45500g£7.25
1kg£8.552kg

£11.0010kg
£26.6020kg£41.20
Read more at http://www.postoffice.co.uk/mail/uk-guaranteed#v5q9RgWeWmlwU6F1.99

 

It is only if you read further down the page you see Saturday mentioned.

Quote:

Do you have a letter or parcel that is valuable or needs to be there the next day? Choose our Guaranteed services when you need:

  • the item to arrive next day
  • to track important items online and get proof of delivery, including a signature
  • the assurance of compensation for valuable items
  • seller protection if you are selling online

Royal Mail Special Delivery Guaranteed®

Get the peace of mind that comes with knowing that important post has arrived safely – use Royal Mail Special Delivery Guaranteed®.

Why use Special Delivery Guaranteed?

  • Follow your letters and parcels from the moment it leaves your hands to the second it arrives with Track & Trace
  • Choose to have your item delivered by 9am or by 1pm
  • We’re so confident your item will arrive on time, you will receive a refund if it doesn’t*
  • Your item won’t be delivered without a signature, which can be viewed online 10 minutes after delivery

What else is included?

  • Up to £50 compensation cover for Royal Mail Special Delivery Guaranteed® by 9am
  • Up to £500 compensation cover for Royal Mail Special Delivery Guaranteed® by 1pm
  • Guaranteed Saturday delivery (additional costs will apply)
  • Increased compensation available for up to £2,500
  • Consequential loss (compensation for financial consequences of damage or loss) of up to £10,000 available for an additional fee

Read more at http://www.postoffice.co.uk/mail/uk-guaranteed#uSrxgmGeAfeev3tj.99

 

Royal Mail Special Delivery
Guaranteed by 1pm® with Saturday Guarantee		 100g £11.94
500g £12.90
1kg £14.46
2kg £17.40
10kg £36.12
20kg £53.54

 

Category Max weight

Read more at http://www.postoffice.co.uk/mail/uk-guaranteed#zO77y7z8udqS1RcL.99

I wonder who thinks calculus is part of geomorphology ?

IMG_0067.JPG

Topology, a branch of mathematics, is sometimes called rubber sheet geometry.
It’s a sad world when mathematicians have to study the sheets of those of us who have leaky bladders.
However, if Tracy Emin’s bed is a work of art it extends the possibilities for scientists and mathematicians.And this needed because with all academics having to publish very frequently they might run out of topics.
So we might have a study of duvets and the different shapes they might assume when they are covering just one person, two people, three people and since we are mathematicians, we could study their shapes when covering an infinite number of people.
Alternatively how about the effect of one person being covered by an infinite number of duvets?
Would it be aleph-null the infinity of the rational numbers or aleph 0ne [the infinity of the real numbers]?
Aleph one is the bigger of the two .
Aleph is the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet… and it is used because mathematicians already have used up the Greek alphabet.
So now we use the Hebrew one which is slightly different.
If you learned calculus you will recall all those delta x’s and delta y’s.
This makes me think calculus is part of geomorphology and I do believe that geomorphology which studies the surface of the earth is linked to the love and study of the mother’s face and body by human infants.
So calculus is linked to the studied love of babies.Can it be that if you had a disturbed infancy you will find mathematics very hard? Plastic geometry and plastic surgery will be dealt with later but obviously again it is linked to love or hate of the body though our bodies are not usually made from plastic but who knows the future?

Better in bed

16113925_850061061800440_3115568331247535304_n

They  have asked me to help a woman doing a maths degree at the OU
I said,I have forgotten it all
But she has cancer, they report.
I still can’t remember much except
Most numbers are transcendental
They are infinite in number yet we have only discovered a few
Pi and e are two
The other numbers also infinite in number yet are a “smaller infinity” than the first I mentioned.
As for addition and multiplication
It’s better in bed!

Apparently, there is a rubber band inside it.

Did you  know that
A self-defrosting refrigerator
Just has a channel and a little hole in the wall
Behind that is a small  sponge
So much for modern technology.

 

Now my DVD player won’t open
Apparently, there is a rubber band inside it.
They gradually dry out
Then the machine won’t work
Do they think I will take it apart?
I’ll go the cinema and see a film there
One might have thought after Einstein and Heisenberg
And Goya, Picasso and Paul Klee
We’d have found a better way
Of dealing with the every day.