Morrigan in her tower

Be calm and quiet

my busy mind

but no...

for I'm afeared

that I might die

If one as troubled

stretched as I

should ever pause

for just one breath...

may be my last

as all the thoughts

like gathered stones

that have been smashed

collapse and pause

on top of me

on top of me

when light becomes

a white landslide

and brightness

washes over me

and darkness no longer deified

removes the blindfold

binding me

moved by strobing incertitude

and crippled by dubiety

never a breath or interlude

a knot in my sobriety

one day my God

just vaporised

before my eyes

lay down and died

and so I fill my busy mind

or all the time

is all the time

as second guesses

stitches of doubt

are unpicked by

a rapacious Raven

all that entails

now spilling out

fills up the empty

truth i bathe in

greedy , grasping

kronking beak

the beady eye

that watches me

from a pious branch

it occupies

a position of hard certainty

ridiculous

to grasp so hard

upon the knowledge

laden tree

doubt the condition

that plagues my vision

the emperor's clothes

that best suit me

throughout my life

through other eyes

Ravens on moor

on walls, roadsides

slow black Crow black

moon and tides

powered by the storm inside

surrounded now

by Moor and Sea

the dark that might just

swallow me

If I open up

from my exile

a tiny crack

an unforced smile

the crumbling façade

with no sustaining

whirlwind to mitigate

exposed charade

this page is framing

will slowly disintegrate

and the powdered bones

that were my home

my earthly throne

will blow away

will blow away

and dissipate

and so....

I gallop on

as thundering hooves

ring loud inside my head

they Shake and jar

my bones and skull

and fill my veins with dread

but I hang on

as bits fall off me

and live by wits

that truly cost me

for there is no

fevered manic, busy, life

that does not exact a hefty price

and still the coal black

crow black bird

the Raven

watches me

ebony feathered

hackles weathered

a beard

perched in a tree

the hungry Raven

sees through friends eyes

the not so common sense they share

they feast on

those who have met

grisly ends

untroubled by Voltaire

and it is me

the wilful

stupid me

who will not surrender

screaming at the oceans

snarling face

daring the waves

to crash

as between the rocks I dash

afraid if I should lower sails

that i will miss the rain and gales

come off the rails

and all against which I have railed

it is this momentum

and this madness

that picks up and carries me

the shroud of light

that shadows sadness

breaks the heavy chains of anxiety

and the watching

ancient Raven

I know that he is waiting

I will not calm

my busy mind

in this the witching hour

maybe the Raven watching me

is guarding me

protecting me

maybe that he, is really she

Morrigan in her tower

the filth, judge and jury

Brendan Behan got there first

the F word in a Panorama

the host himself

had made it worse

before the playwright

talked of drama

before Mclaren said no wages

if there's no Pistols on TV

never mind the b*ll*cks pundit

here's the rotten BBC

that other Malcolm... Muggeridge

bought Behan Scotch

at 'The Garrick Club'

he had no shoes,

his shirt messed up

four letter word from down the pub

that was back in 56

Behan was dead at 41

an Irish drinker

with writing problems

i’m sure that Borstal was 'No fun'

December the first, 1976

the Sex Pistols had replaced Queen

Bill Grundy called them

foul-mouthed Yobs

before the silver Jubilee

within a month

EMI had dropped them

the contract dead

they'd just begun

moral panic was the reason

(now they had a reason

now they had a reason)

unwanted Holiday in the Sun

regional TV was Pretty Vacant

punk rock presented as 'the new craze'

'ever get the feeling you've been cheated?'

here's 'Anarchy in the UK'

the clink of booze

the air turned blue

a moment of notoriety

the green room schmooze

broadcast the crude

the hosts boasts of lacking sobriety

not the squeaky clean Beatles

nor the nice Rolling Stones

they are both so clean by comparison

burning Punk Rockers with fire in their eyes

not 'Here Comes The Sun'

by George Harrison

my Sweet Lord

forty grand down the Pub

better start the Outrage Express

Bill said 'Come on kids'

then stoked up the fires

and the ire

of the tabloid press

are you being serious

or having a laugh?

the Daily Mirror

the Filth and the Fury

uproar and moans

as viewers jam phones

the Dailys are

both Judge and Jury

Mozart, Bach and Brahms are Brown bread

they're all heroes of ours

and Beethoven's Deaf

they're wonderful people

and they turn us all on

'really? but they are now all so far gone'

other's may like them

'Well that's just their tough sh*t'

good heavens you frighten me to death

What is your suggestion?

a Rude word. Next question

your playing games, I'm really impressed

this geezer Bill, like your Dad or Grandad

patronised like a lecherous hack

what about you girls, Enjoying yourself?

nineteen yr old Siouxsie

threw back

i always wanted to meet you

she said with a camp pout

'we'll meet afterwards shall we?'

said Bill

Thames 'TV Today'

was incredibly grey

meeting Grundy, was hardly a thrill

no one was plastered

53 and no looker

you dirty b*st*rd

you dirty f*cker

you dirty sod

you dirty old man

'say something outrageous'

that was your plan

they were so fresh

that's the real shocker

but TV's Bill Grundy?

what a f*cking rotter

HANDS

Hands

On which fingers dressed

With wedding bands

Undress

Caress

For better

For worse

For more or less

Trace the curves

On which you've slept

The breast

In which the secrets kept

Beats heavy

Hot

Beneath

The hair

That caught your breath

The lips

That kissed

Their way

To bliss

That opened yours

The tongue that slipped

It's way

Between

Intentions missed

A sea of caution set adrift

And hands

That land upon

Unexplored sands

The course it threads

Through Silken strands

Fingers untie

The best made plans

The fever dreams

The crazy schemes

That set us free

Gand aft aglee

Exercise in futility

The hands

In which we cradle

Soft demands

The tiny grasp

That grips your finger

The scent of milk

The sighs

Those searching eyes

that linger

The sucking beat

Against your chest

Those little feet

Very first steps

Holding

The hands

The heart

this babe in arms

commands

It beats anew

But tears off days

Weaned off dreaming

Spoon fed time

Till bread is held

And life is grasped

By hungry hands

That search

And grab

And poke and scratch

And touch

And hold

From shawl

To shelter

Hands that build

That sow

That harvest

Hunt and kill

That snap

That grind

That stroke and cup

That thread and heal

That tie and wrap

That tweak and tickle

punch and slap

That run through hair

That massage backs

That hold and squeeze

That pluck and strum

That flick and beat

on skin and drum

That speak in gestures

depress keys

That Write with pens

And set us free

Hands that play scissors

Paper and stone

That pat-a-cake rhymes

Until we've grown

Paint with brushes

Cut with knives

pumped stopped hearts

Back into life

Unfurl ropes and

Cast out lines

throw back the catch

That does not rhyme

Hands that rummage

Hands that find

Hand over heirlooms

Through our lives

Fasten that Jewellery

pin on hats

Hand over titles

Aristocrats

Horses measured

From floor to back

Four inch per hand

Hands that tic tac

Bookies share odds

While at the races

Hands Pat horses

Tie up laces

hands that conjure

and conceal

hands that model

what is real

hands that jazz

and hands that flap

hand over tickets

hands that clap

hands that feed

and hands that cook

that roll the dice

and pick cards up

hands that finalise a deal

funny handshakes

Hands that steal

hands that save

and unkind hands

hands with cards

that hand out bans

with heavy heart

and bloodied hands

hands that swear oaths on the stand

hands that plead

and hands that pray

hands that give it all away

fingers that stretch and search for holds

we all hang on

some till were old

we all must learn

when to let go

on palms they say

is our lives map

Under hands that swipe

The apps we tap

We scroll down days

And finger type

When dawn first breaks

The dead of night

The finger pointing

Sleight of hand

I'd understand

If they were banned

When we lie or sit

Or walk or stand

I'd much rather

be holding

Hands

The Joy Of Running Dogs

The joy of running dogs

the happy skip of every trip

In rain or sun

on slick wet grass

across hot slabs

the run the walk

the stick and ball

the joy of running dogs

the dreams of running dogs

no need for papers

coffee or news

where they lay

is where they snooze

the happy snore

the snuffling twitch

the scent of leaves

the snap of twigs

the dreams of running dogs

Waiting

So here we go

another hospital

more waiting

then a little chat

it was

impossible

so back we come

to try a new approach

sitting on

the same old seat

discomfort

never broached

waiting, waiting, waiting

can be infuriating

overthinking never blinking

I should be meditating

long corridors

and vinyl floors

no skirting boards

sealed up the walls

still

waiting,waiting, waiting

sit then fidget

stretch my legs

tuck them away

from hurried beds

on wheels

the patients

wheeled like trams

or adult babies in their prams

scratch my elbows

swing knees that fold

tap patella beats

click hammer toes

pinch my ear and

scratch my nose

wait, sit, wait

at least we were not late

routine procedure

unlike a seizure

it's the randomness

I hate

waiting, waiting, waiting

not quite excruciating

the patient patient

consciousness latent

while I'm anticipating

surgery, clinic, casualty

vaccinations,

like pulling teeth

the queues the wait

the sitting down

at least I'm not in the blue gown

impatient at the outpatients

and sorely tried by triage

I thought 'she's here'

but it's not clear

turns out to be a mirage

waiting,waiting,waiting

it's the not knowing

that I'm hating

I grind my teeth in disbelief

the other waiters

find this grating

soon this will pass

like kidney stones

and we will both

be going home

biscuits for her

but not for me

for both of us

a cup of tea

this waiting room

this purgatory

hope springs eternal

leaks for me

ah

I have not been forsaken

here is the end of waiting

NITS, NITS, NITS

Nits

Nits

Nits

I hate the little gits

they invade your house

the dirty louse

like a plague that never quits

Lice

Lice

Lice

they're not very nice

combs and Potions

nit killing lotions

fingernails that splice

another annoying

infestation

I wish on them insect cremation

drag them and eggs out

with a comb

stop the insects taking hold

round up the kids

wash their heads

comb out the dead

the tiny eggs

wash the bedding

5000 degrees

hell on earth

for louse and fleas

they become nymphs

just after hatching

then suck your blood

and we start scratching

blood sucking insects

that spit on your head?

of course I want

the biters dead

countless Draculas

and Nosferatu

the tiny vampires

that feast upon you

a six legged

Christopher Lee

the victims have been bled

until your whole house

is Oldman free

Bela Legosi is not dead

decapitate

stake through the heart

garlic drops

before you start

you can live in a mansion

or social housing

you still need chemical

Van Helsing

a nurse , a chef,

barber and teacher

another role

your job will feature

parental duties

pest control

it never ends

destroys your soul

and so to cope

you will soon learn

straighteners make

the parasites burn

still they return

back from the dead

to climb and feed

off every head

Lice

Nits

Lice

you will have then more than twice

unless you shave

your kids hair off

and that's not very nice

itchy creatures

contagious, catching

just mention them

and we start scratching

but they cannot fly

carry disease

they can only crawl

not jump like fleas

I will leave you with one thought

as you stop and scratch your heads

did one just crawl onto your scalp

or can an idea grow six legs?

The Rainbow Road Not Taken

Oft when on my couch I lie

In console playing mood

Their worlds they fill my inward eye

The bliss of gaming solitude

I wandered on Lakitu's cloud

that floats on bytes o-er pipes and hills

when all at once I saw fire flowers

piranha plants and shrooms like pills

Climbed ladders playing Chuckie Egg

telepathy had become real

Into a 16 year olds head

Programmers inner worlds revealed

Zx Spectrum Bitmap colour

Just one bit per pixel

Type LOAD " " , start tape

8-Bit landscape

simple adventures, blissful

the sound of Data

one low, nought high

those crazy flashing lines

Manic Miner, Chequered Flag

School Daze, the best of times

In the arcade cabinet i have sat

and zoomed through vector graphics

blew up Death Stars, lassoed At-Ats

And flew to other planets

In Another World, a world of blue

There were no words

No internet

In Ico, I spent weeks in towers

The nostalgia of the infinite

My heart still aches for Yorda

and the abandoned boy

I climbed and rode 16 Colossi

raised Wander's sword, and jumped for joy

I took my part in the Bards tale

and walked through Baldur's Gate

fought enemies in dark dungeons

and smashed a million crates

I've cruised in boats and starships too

through open worlds and galaxies

found trading routes within Elite

set sail with Link on the great sea

I jumped through time in Time Splitters

played as Kings, and Orcs, and Cats

fought countless wars, with guns and swords

with only tea spilled, on mouse mats

first person Shooters, RPGS,

action, Adventure , Sports

epic sprawling massive campaigns

cute independent shorts

a POW Escape from deep within,

an ancient German castle

first in 2D and then in 3

Those Nazis were all assholes

Fergus ,Wyatt, Hendrix, and Tesla

the different paths in Wolfenstein

alternate realities that test ya

your destiny, your own timeline

I dream of streets in New Orleans

that I have walked with Lincoln Clay

raised hell for weeks in lost Heaven

and lost whole days in Empire Bay

I've been James Bond in GoldenEye

also the mud skipper, James Pond

I stormed Normandy 2003

the very first and finest C.O.D

Black Mesa Cave, hope is a slave,

and Gordon is a freeman

Half- Life decay

VR today

held captive by the G-Man

W,A,S and ,D

have long moved characters for me

The Last Of Us and poor Max Payne

now lost in time, like tears in rain

I 've seen things you people would not believe

attack ships on fire, a pink playstation

I grew up with people who set us free

open world procedural generation

some seem to get their downtime thrills

by dancing with the daffodils

but I'll take worlds, fantastic worlds

and things I can control

when things are bad and I am sad

I'll be consoled by my console

For worlds created are no less

real than the one we walk through

less traveled yes, there is no best

choose who you want to talk to

roads may diverge switch back and merge

fact and fiction promote growth

we pass through this yellow wood but once

so why not travel both?

our lives are randomly switched on

new levels every year

we bounce like pixels within pong

the final boss, now holds no fear

These are places I remember all my life,

from different games

some are in my dreams forever

some uninstalled and some are saved

all these games they had their moments

alone and with friends, I've played them all

in some I'm stuck and some are finished

in my life I loved them all

Under the wave

You can see it everywhere, it broke off Kanagawa

in museums, shops and galleries

on the curtain for your shower

on your phone-case or your wallpaper

in LA , Tokyo and London

a hand carved print of wet brush strokes

we drown in it's abundance

below white foam the Prussian blue

the contrast is effective

for this sea-based Mount Fuji View

pre-selected, fixed perspective

commissioned by the VOC

Katsushika painted scenes

Japan suffered for their sanity

oh how he tried to set them free

years later Van Gogh painted night

in an asylum filled with fear

'these waves are claws, the boat is caught'

it seems you had his ear

though it is clearly now ubiquitous

a never ending fountain

like a perfect curve for Sisyphus

to rick roll his rock back up the mountain

but what's remarkable, extraordinary

and really quite astonishing

for all the high brow curt dismissal

and the art critics admonishing

is the fact that is exists at all

yes,the sea can be quite frightening

not just struck with inspiration

at 50, Hokusai was struck by lightening

brushed with a stroke when in his sixties,

just like the waves that move the sand

he had to learn to paint again

the sleeve erasing was not planned

a striking image that sticks out, for a four Island nation

he painted it at 70, 18 years before his expiration

none braver, than the fisherman

his hair dried out, his skin, rope burned

he rides the wind, stares down the sun,

a lesson in resilience learned

just persevere, cast out the fear,

live now, embrace the motion

live each moment at a time

through life's turbulent deep ocean

life flows like sand, between our fingers

yet hands still grasp, right to the end

grief like the taste of salt, it lingers

a seasoned end for a dear friend

the unthinkable that stumps the thinkers

the carver first removes the wood

here's to the the artists , poets, drinkers

the printer inks the block like blood

the patterns made repeat themselves

woodblock made prints, the artists hand

like spines of books upon a shelf

sacred landscape, the working man

like lives arising from the sea, returning to humanity

that arc, that crest, our worst and best

under the wave is Mount Fuji

for though like fishermen and Sisyphus

our lives may seem absurd

our search for meaning is futile

our prayers are never heard

an ever changing great wave caught

as it comes crashing down

the struggle itself is enough

the mountain never drowns

Two tone at home

Mento, Calypso and all that Jazz

blew in on a Jamaican breeze

rhythm and blues , and snares that crack

and hips that sway, chords like palm trees

the walking baseline stepped ashore

in Windrush Brogues so patent bright

black heels clicking, on two and four

one white socked foot lifted each night

the corkscrewed hips, the crawl and twist

the punch, the bass, the upbeat bliss,

the offbeat riddims, guitars that glisten

shimmer upstroke ,breathe and listen

then a later generation

moved by that rock steady beat

syncopated dislocation

the Midland maestro's from the street

the English Beat moved more than feet

and Coventry was Special too

Saxa bridging Orange Street

new wave revival, and Punk 'F*ck you'

made to heal tears, soul inflection

full stop ranking beat creation

staccato Stiff and Two Tone at home

British Ska that moved a nation

gangsters never trashed Hotel rooms

wha'happen dancing Jabsco did

three minutes heroes The Selector

too much pressure under the lid

the only invaders were North London

became the Camden Nutty Boys

brethren of the Prince were invited

racist toddlers threw out their toys

we harassed our mothers for Doc Martins

14 holers if we dared

black Harrington's with tartan lining

ad drainpipe jeans, trousers not flared

buzz-cut, ch ch, braces too, Skinhead style not BNP,

tabloid rubbish all the while

Bad Manners Margate by the sea

Jerry,Terry,Gaps and Pauline,

chequerboard that we adored

Yes and flares and Mud and Wombles

all the things that we abhorred

too young for Punk, but liked the naughty,

the Madness then was Absolute

rebels at playtime, ties as peanuts

beaten with canes and kicked with boots

the energy was so infectious,

the dancehall skanking had us hooked

other tribes could not deflect us

too cool for school was how we looked

and still Ska makes me feel alive,

a running man, two stepping madly

a child transported out of time

a Grandad dancing very badly

so thank you Rhoda, Roger, Doug

your body snatching, toasting tongue

Monsieur Barso, El Thommo, Suggs

by now I'm sure it must be love

©ThePoetBeanz.com 2025

Synths and cats

Moggies on moogs

Kitties on Korgs

Scratching claws across sliders

Paws on keyboards

TB 303s tabbies

Raving it up

British Short Hairs

On Behringers

Tweaking Res and cutt off

Playing M1s and Oberheims

Squelching and growling

Siamese on Sequential Circuits

Yamaha's yowling

Rexs from Cornwall

and rexs from Devon

Tinkling E Pianos

Sat atop DX7s

Pussies on Prophets

Gingers on Jen's

Cs80 Maine Coons

Tom Cats on Pitch bends

Clavia Nord

Roland and Novation

Ensoniq, Kawaii quacking

Catty clicking notation

In 1981

Dave Smith gave us MIDI

Near eastern wildcat

Prophet of polyphony

Now felis catus

Are all over the world

Splaying out over keybeds

Like cables unfurled

Stretching Abyssinians

Playing Jean Meaow Jarre

Bengal Brian Enos

Sphinxs beeping Vince Clarke

Random riffs from Black Cats

Sound just like Depeche Mode

Burmese cats switch on Bach

For Wendy Carlos at home

Clockwork Orange tom Tron

Eerie Circona The Shining

Transforming metamorphosis

With what she was designing

Feline frequency mod

Gorgio Moroder

Vangelis, Kraftwerk

Cats tweaking controllers

Hissing feral white noise

Lovely Purring sustain

Fluffy Persian resonance

Manx cut off decay

Teeth like a saw tooth

Arched triangle back

Cat on a hot tin roof

Square wave step down racks

Stalk like a sine wave

Oscillating warm purr

Additive synthipuss

Harmonics with fur

Cleaning faces with paws

ADSR tweaking

Felines and Fairlights

Cats chirping and speaking

In league with nerd Humans

Walk on flats and sharps

Cacophonous Orchestral

Manouvers in the Dark

I love cats and synths

So diverse and eclectic

A tiny mewman tubeway army

Our feline friends electric

Something to stroke

Whilst sat in your lap

A producer like Kate

Even moved like a cat

A bird in the hand

Is worth two in the bush

can't resist new synths

Geddy bass pedal Rush

Like the nonplussed look

At a bowl full of food

Even if I can't move

For all the synths in the room

I am about as likely

To keep synth free pledges

As cats are to give up

Batting objects off edges

But where would we be without cats

Without synths

Like a dance with no discos

And statues without plinths

Imagine a world

without ribbons and knobs

No tangerine dreams

No cute furry gods

With fluff in the keyboard

Paw prints on the keys

My mate once had a synth

That was Jumping with Fleas

It's a small price to pay

For a lifetime of love

One without the other?

Just can't get enough

© The Pet Beanz 2025