HAVE A BRIDGE TO SELL
IF YOU THINK THIS DEAL GOES WELL
ONLY TIME WILL TELL
Valentine’s Day is just a gimmick
It could be me as I’m a cynic
Partners shouldn’t be treated nice on one day of the year
That relationship would be critical and severe
Should show appreciation all year round
Everyday, every week like your interwound
Show and voice your love
Not annually going beyond and above
A small token of appreciation is more than enough
Filling their heart with kind words and stuff
Treat your lover with affection every day
Your heart on a sleeve to avoid the decay
It’s nice you are filling the pockets of a shop owner
Once a year is not enough to keep her
I raise my glass against the creeping night,
And laugh at shadows clawing at my flame;
Let death come slow or fast-I hold my light.
For what is life if lived without a claim
To fire, music, madness, reckless cheer?
A sober world is sober than it's shame
So let the cautious tremble, clutching fear;
I'll dance where fear runs red as mortal blood,
And drown the ticking silence in jeer.
Let saints preach duty, labour, sweat, and mud-
Their sermons wilt beneath the club's loud roar;
I choose the storm,the glitter and the flood.
Though bones may crack and lungs may breathe no more,
My name will rise from every emptied cup-
A toast to nights that burned my spirits raw.
And when the final reckoning adds up,
Let death itself bow down before my spree;
I lived unchained, and never once looked up
It might be a tragedy,
Might be something unethical,
Might be a disaster,
Waiting to happen somehow soon.
It is no bigger than a cyclone,
But it overflows tremendously.
It might not be just a slaughter,
But it might be something physical yet emotional.
There might be a paradise,
There might be a homicide,
There might be a genocide
In the mind of an idiot.
There might be blood on white satin,
It might be chaos within;
Something so cynical,
Yet it looks like a miracle.
This is the breakthrough,
From the surface to the veil underneath.
I wanted to tell you this secret for so long,
You might know it from the very beginning!
We are not cynical
She had been married once or twice and lived among
the rich, that was what happened to air hostesses when
there was a frisson about this job.
Her last husband came from Amsterdam, a doyen of
the fur trade, elegantly dressed, and a walking stick
With a stick, one assumes he was quite elderly.
He had bought her a flat with many rooms, too many
one of lesser background would think, then to her
surprise, he suddenly died
So what was a girl to do, sitting with a flat not all
paid for, sensibly, she rented out the flat to people
Who could pay and keep the heating on come winter
Then she met her final man just as her legs were
getting tired, he would do, she thought he had a car
and doesn't bother about a high-flying life
Thus, a love story blossomed, if not a lady and a trap
Yet, a love story of a sort, he needs her to do the talking
So he can sit in his room and write
Dress a girl a letter,
Printing numbers on her back.
Buy her flowers,
Give her powers,
Wrapping poison round her neck.
One day she’ll leave you,
She’ll deceive you,
And you’ll be better off dead.
So, you won’t get far with that head
Unless you break your neck
And yet you still ask to the sun
If the moon has won,
If the war has really ended
Or it's just begun.
So you’ll dress a girl a letter,
And print numbers on her neck.
Steal her powers,
Buy her flowers,
Say she’s better off dead.
Oh, you’ll deceive her,
But believe her,
When she’s messing with your head.
Ignore the blood beneath her nails ,
because you pay for them instead.
But the wars already won,
It was done and fun,
You were caught between a victory, a romance and a gun.
So when you pull your head together from the cracks beneath the earth
Steal her flowers
She’s deflowered
Push her back against the world
The war was won
And you are done
You are both swimming in your hurt
And then your hand reached for the gun.
Roses are dying;
the blue bird is crying.
Posies fill the pockets of
those who are sick and dying.
red rose price rises
faster than flaccid todgers ~
a blooming rip off!!!
Love’s not cynical; it’s real—
Not some gamble, some spin-wheel deal.
More like a flame, steady, even at night,
Not just some spark to blur your sight.
It’s a hand that holds tight when it’s fight or flight.
Some people, though… have felt a love that’s twisted and cold,
Caught in a web of lies that just won’t grow old.
Smooth talk, no feelings—breaking the heart,
Tis Lust, not love; brass, not gold—fake.
So love me or leave me, don’t pretend.
But real love is not about power or fame,
It’s a whisper, a voice softly calling your name.
It’s courage to stay, the patience to wait—
Like light that breaks through on a cloudy day.
When love is true, it won’t make you guess,
Won’t leave you doubting or feelin’ like less.
It’s that peace you find in a heart that’s kind,
The kind of truth that makes you feel safe, not surreal,
Takes off the mask, shows what’s real.
So, love me my dear… don’t say goodbye,
True love is like a river, flowing steady and high—
A force that runs deep, will never run dry.
cynical?
sometimes
sarcastic?
I have tried to give this up
snippy?
Yes!
abrupt?
absolutely.
funny?
with my friends
Polite?
before I get to know you
In this age of post-civility
not to mention post-amiability
I find most posts I read
full of hostility...
It's the era of post-biology
as well as post-ideology
'TBD Birth Certificates'
without apology...
In this, the dawn of pre-disintegration
along with burgeoning segregation
The most-maligned phrase in our nation
'merit-based evaluation' ...
So, into my bunker I prepare to hunker
and since I'm no spelunker
'A Century of Automotive Progress' I write -
from gas-powered clunkers
~ to EV junkers
My heart is a charcoal gray
With silver specks in the sun
Tomorrow is New Year's Day
And this old year, my dear, is done
A bit of moss on the north knoll
The hills of my heart burrowed through
And I'm cramming hope in the holes
Just like the woodpeckers do.
Diminish decay torrid in bane, finish this
horrid image astray.
My sequel pain is unique, in vain I’m not
what these people think.
Although visible In Cynical Sorrow, I still
feel miserable tomorrow.
A wobble waiting in the shed
A joke cracked by Victorian comedians
A test of youthful instability
A trial by tarmac
An unyielding seat with changing views
A wetter way of travelling through rain
A soundless nemesis for pensioners
A tin-tack gathering machine
A complexity in ambulation
A tool used by the mad or desperate
A ticking mockery of balance
A frame for shaming the unfit
A creaking snail on hills
A public declaration of pretence or poverty
An undignified arrival and
A bait for thieves
I spilled my seventh cup of coffee
While shuffling through the papers on my desk.
It was a ham and cheese performance,
A little bit of business-like burlesque.
I sort through tax returns and spreadsheets,
Deciding what to shred and what to keep.
The numbers flatten my perception.
It’s hard to tell the shallow from the deep.
The market parodies the weather,
It’s sometimes paradise, and sometimes hell.
It takes a fortune teller’s insight
To know which stocks to buy and which to sell.
I go to trade shows and conventions
To bust my hump establishing rapport.
To get that sweet insider cherry,
I give good face and put out like a whore.
But it’s so sweet insider cherry,
Just so sweet insider cherry
Can provide me with an edge.
When investing in the future,
Need to guarantee the future with an edge.
That’s my pledge.
I take fiduciary gambles
To profit from a fickle fiscal year,
And plot inventive navigation
To dodge the rocks and shoals that interfere
With my relentless and creative
Chicanery within the corporate sphere.
I keep a second set of ledgers
That chronicle my cynical career.
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