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David SmithWhite

The Full Monty

Should I compare thee to the cathode ray,
The snaking tube that monitors our lugubrious world,
And skims the social sea with ubiquitous display
And dismal content? Has Monty's python uncoiled?
For now it slithers across the living-room floor,
To deliver the dross to willing prey, so mesmerised
By the glamour and glossy allure (its jaws flip open,
Our collective head in its gaze) we are anaesthetised
To the danger by the vicarious gore. And swallowed
Whole in surrender, we might as well fall on our sword!
Should I contrast the blasted swill, constantly hurled
Into our surly consciousness, with the occasional pearl
Of true understanding? Or should I forswear thy peerless
Company for an early retirement and tasks less demanding?

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Red With Native Blood

Give them back their bloody land,
red with native blood.
We have soiled it so, with our hands,
red with native blood.
The earth was stained, when we first came,
red with native blood.
We stole their domain, with a barbaric claim:
that we were civilised and they were not,
that they were the savages and we were not,
when we ravaged the land that began to clot,
red with native blood.

Not content with genocide
we interned them in reserves.
To break their culture
and tribal ways;
in stealing children
the state was brave,
to turn their women
into household slaves,

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Song: Suicide City

Down at suicide city,
Null of pride and past all pity.
Suicide city:
A stressed out Walter Mitty,
I'm at suicide city,
And I've maxed out my last chitty.
Suicide city, for my crime.

It's the dreaming and aphasic snow,
The white noise of this constant go.
And frozen in the cauldron's glow,
Of demons and my fears of woe;
The neediness of knee-jerk foe,
Who'd stand and fight them toe to toe,
Toe to toe, toe to toe...

Down at suicide city,
With nothing in the kitty.
Suicide city:
My life has got so shitty.

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Black Dog

A dark paranoia dogs my steps,
goes for the throat, leaps on my chest,
brings down it's prey and rips my flesh,
baying at the moon.

I am a tortured soul in hell,
flayed alive, not doing well.
A black dog obeying some primal spell,
baying at the moon.

Moods that shift from meek and mild,
to vile anger, all blast and bile,
courting danger and passions wild,
baying at the moon.

The hunt is savage and hard-pressed,
with gnashing teeth to stop my breath.
A scream of horror, mute in my breast,
baying at the moon.

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The History of Now

The recording of culture is history;
but our culture is more than that.
It's the world of human action,
and the myths we make of the fact.

The recording of history is culture,
but our history is more than that.
It informs a hidden agenda.
Unconscious of motive we act.

It's the history of now, the history of now.
It's only the present that exists as endowed.
It's the history of now. The moment - KAPOW!
That knocks you right over and muddies your brow.

Through the prism of language, we know what we know.
We carry our baggage and stories of woe.
Victor and vanquished pride cannot budge,
the dead weight of hatred and ancestral grudge.

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Song: Top Dog

Without the luxury or remorse,
of the kennelled cops on horse;
the addict dogs patrol the airport lounge.
I'm an Officer of the Force,
PC Dogie O'Hound, of course,
a taut spring, tight and tensioned, till unwound.

Dogie O'Hound, the cop from the Pound:
I hunts 'em down. I hunts 'em down.
I gets around as Dogie O'Hound,
to sniff out more quarry, pound for pound.

The dog cop is Halle-Boppe,
a comet to a grain.
You'll never stop the dogged cop;
hard-nosed and so well-trained.
The cop dog is top dog,
in the furry food-chain.
The cop dog, full chop dog,
smells guilt in flooding rain.

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Song: On Borrowed Time

We're all living on borrowed time,
Near the brooding sea and brine.
And we grow our primate's spine,
In every clime.

Since we crawled out from 'neath the grime,
And evolved to a species – prime.
We've been living on borrowed time,
On borrowed time.

On borrowed time. We feed and dine.
On borrowed time. In swill like swine.
On borrowed time. We sup our wine.
On borrowed time. On borrowed time!

On borrowed time. In slow decline.
On borrowed time. No season shines.
On borrowed time. No reason rhymes.
On borrowed time. On borrowed time!

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An Alternate Battle Hymn

To the tune of: The Battle Hymn of the Republic

-

Mine eyes are wide and whitening in the recess of the dark.
They are still and fixed and staring and will shine no more a spark.
In dread of merely dying has my life traced out it's arc,
Will death yet set me free?

Gory! Gory! War is murder!
The bridge of hope has lost her girders.
Oh Gloria, you should have heard her
Cry of misery.

I've been FBI and CIA, a gruff DEA narc.
In the jungles of Columbia I fought the fiercest FARC.
We employed the smart technologies in our hunting of the Snark.
And the game we played was war!

Gory! Gory! War is murder!

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Song: An Average Cyber Hero

I'm your average cyber hero;
I don't exist in space.
My algorithm's zero.
I lack all human grace.
I'm your average cyber hero;
And I know my cyber place.
But my wheels are real and turning,
And burning up apace.

I'm your average cyber hero,
Writ in glyph of lower case.
An avatar of Nero,
With a second life and face.
I'm your average cyber hero,
With a cryptic clue to trace;
And I'll out-google Google,
With an engine cued to chase.

I'm your average cyber hero;
But you may think me more.

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The Holocaust Song (August 6th, '45.)

8-15 Tuesday morning
a burning flash dissolved the skies,
death reigned without warning...
August 6th, '45.

In a lightning crash of frozen moment,
thousands were incinerated and scourged alive;
firewinds flayed through paper houses...
August 6th, '45.

People cauterized to the melting earth,
their scalding blood, their flesh that fried:
they were the lucky ones...
August 6th, '45.

Who put the horror in Hiroshima?
Who wrote shock on the human eye?
Who etched terror onto mankind's future
that August 6th, '45?

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