Larkin' About (apologies to Philip)


This Be The Curse       Annus Horribilis       Starting from a Line of Larkin


This Be The Curse

They overheat, your CPUs
They aren't supposed to but they can
When you upgrade the apps you use
And dust clogs up the bloody fan!

With each two years their power doubles
And software grows to fill the space
It always brings new costs and troubles
With each machine that you replace

Computers eat your time and cash
The master soon becomes the slave:
Dump all your hardware in the trash
Before it dumps you in your grave


[28/6/16, after This Be the Verse, aka They fuck you up, your Mum and Dad]


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Annus Horribilis

Sexual intercourse went wrong
in Nineteen Eighty-four
(which for me was rather a bore),
when the AIDS virus came along,
just after the Falklands War

Before that everything had seemed
like folks were having a ball:
a lust-crazed free-for-all,
except for those like me, who dreamed
Of getting laid at all

Then all at once the good times ceased;
the active took more care,
and though it wasn't fair,
my failures, due to risks increased,
seemed 'socially aware'

So that was when it all went wrong,
in Nineteen Eighty-four
(and still I couldn't score)
once the AIDS virus came along,
just after the Falklands War


[22/5/16, after Annus Mirabilis, aka Sexual Intercourse began / In 1963]


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Starting from a Line of Larkin

The music in the piano stool
included Für Elise, and so
(so typical of me) I tried
to learn the piece, with
no prior knowledge,
no technique,
no practiced scales,
no finger exercises.
                                Discerning that
the tiny numbers had to indicate
the fingers meant for notes and where
upon each stave to find a middle C,
precocious logic worked out
all the rest.
                   As always
what was lacking was determination:
determination and a willingness
to take instruction, practice. And,
                I guess,
the slightest smidgeon of an aptitude.
Whatever failings may take on the task
of justifying mediocrity,
of excusing poor results,
the simple moral still remains:
reason alone doth not an artist make.
And there, bound in a nutcase,
you have the story of my life.


[10/5/16 — "The music in the piano stool. That vase." the end of Home is so Sad, 1958]

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