Barge pole | Galatea | Mistaken identity | Nothing personal | The optimist
When I'm not programming, I've been known to write poetry. Hopefully the results aren't quite as awful as 'Excalibur' by that other Renaissance man, David Brent.
—Christopher
I will not beat around the bush
but speak my mind for thee,
my heart is worn upon my sleeve;
you are my cup of tea.I'd piss on you if you caught fire
—it's common decency—
and I could give a monkey's toss;
you float my boat for me.You are —I swear— the cat's nightwear
and apple of my eye,
dog's bollocks, knees of birds and bees;
I cannot tell a lie.No spoon's too short to sup with one
who dines so gracefully.
I'd touch you with a ten-foot pole;
don't come that close to me.
The shyly smiling girl with upturned gaze
Could melt the heart of anyone who sees
How lightly on her brow youth's wisdom weighs;
The quiet beauty that she wears with ease.A pencil brushes oft against her cheek
Yet she does not recoil from its caress,
Nor do her graphite eyes betray the pique
A living girl might otherwise express.A slip disfigures her beloved face,
Soon marred beyond repair and rubbed away;
The hags and harridans that take her place
Grotesquely mock the artist's mute dismay.Should fortune gift your work a soul so rare,
Leave well alone or risk such great despair.
How would I feel with you in my arms
Whose identity's often mistaken
Would you give me strength to let go of the past
With no regret for burdens forsakenTwixt four walls of fresh color, not grey
Would food taste so bland and time pass so slow
And when parted, although never alone
Could I kiss you goodbye and you hug me helloOnly the futile chase banners forever
Lacking courage to make one their own
Driftwood on tides of desire and disaffection
Trampling seeds of attachment wherever they‘re sown
Bedspread dens and air raid shelters
Ozone smell of model trains
Slurping ginger beer on Wednesdays
Torchlight under counterpanesKitten poking nose through air holes
Balsa plane lost on the roof
Mother banging on the ceiling
Foolish plans made on the hoofTiny fist that gripped my finger
Slap of waves on fibreglass
Pulling hard in swimming galas
Raising steam and cleaning brassScrape of paper-laden barrow
Hedges wet with morning dew
Clatter of a Gypsy Major
Smell of paint, sawdust and glueRhythmic click of water bottles
Lettuce squeaks of guinea pigs
Cycling hard in Glasgow winters
Trombone stings at Cambridge gigsEverything that made me someone
All the time I spent with you
It adds up to nothing personal
You told me so; it must be true
The optimist, I think you'll find,
is quick to laugh and always kind;
the pessimist, in stark contrast,
is circumspect and laughs the last.If these two types should ever meet,
he'll think her daft but awfully sweet
and she, in turn, will wonder why
he writhes in knots she can't untie.But each fulfils the other's need:
hers to be loved; his to be freed.