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The nature of comedy is 'just do it.' But I think what's interesting about it is this joke has been around and why. And it's just saying what's wrong and how wrong can you be if you say it.

quote by Bob Saget
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The Interpretation of Nature and

I.

MAN, being the servant and interpreter of Nature, can do and understand so much and so much only as he has observed in fact or in thought of the course of nature: beyond this he neither knows anything nor can do anything.


II.

Neither the naked hand nor the understanding left to itself can effect much. It is by instruments and helps that the work is done, which are as much wanted for the understanding as for the hand. And as the instruments of the hand either give motion or guide it, so the instruments of the mind supply either suggestions for the understanding or cautions.

III.

Human knowledge and human power meet in one; for where the cause is not known the effect cannot be produced. Nature to be commanded must be obeyed; and that which in contemplation is as the cause is in operation as the rule.

IV.

Towards the effecting of works, all that man can do is to put together or put asunder natural bodies. The rest is done by nature working within.

V.

The study of nature with a view to works is engaged in by the mechanic, the mathematician, the physician, the alchemist, and the magician; but by all (as things now are) with slight endeavour and scanty success.

VI.

It would be an unsound fancy and self-contradictory to expect that things which have never yet been done can be done except by means which have never yet been tried.

VII.

The productions of the mind and hand seem very numerous in books and manufactures. But all this variety lies in an exquisite subtlety and derivations from a few things already known; not in the number of axioms.

VIII.

Moreover the works already known are due to chance and experiment rather than to sciences; for the sciences we now possess are merely systems for the nice ordering and setting forth of things already invented; not methods of invention or directions for new works.

IX.

The cause and root of nearly all evils in the sciences is this -- that while we falsely admire and extol the powers of the human mind we neglect to seek for its true helps.

X.

The subtlety of nature is greater many times over than the subtlety of the senses and understanding; so that all those specious meditations, speculations, and glosses in which men indulge are quite from the purpose, only there is no one by to observe it.

XI.

As the sciences which we now have do not help us in finding out new works, so neither does the logic which we now have help us in finding out new sciences.

XII.

The logic now in use serves rather to fix and give stability to the errors which have their foundation in commonly received notions than to help the search after truth. So it does more harm than good.

XIII.

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poem by Sir Francis Bacon
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Mist Upon the Placid Morn

Bleed out your beauty, Autumn –
Give up a gentle wrist, and smear
Your bloody hues atop the green.

Cast a calming throw of heady peace
Upon the cooling land.
And as you grant the sun a final fling of warmth,
Charge the silent air
(Now lolling on a foliar deathbed)
With earthen whiff to intimate the fungal push.

Soon you’ll send a shiver down the watery spine of
Quivering ponds, punctual brooks, and
Listless lakes, to warn them of the freeze to come.

Behold! your mellow spirit
Hanging as a mist upon the placid morn –
A sight that draws a sneaking tear or two – forlorn
Observers are we all of colder climes to view!

Autumn Lady, must you be the summer waning –?
Our adieu to fairer-weather life?
Ah well, at least you hum a warming tone, ensuring
Nature’s rhythm still abounds.

But now you must prepare the mind for chilly times –
You know the drill –
Guiding us along a sloping path
To ease our psyche in to sleet and snow –
The blue-ice bite of winter.

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010

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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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As I ventured to the Wood

As I ventured to the wood,
I stopped to draw on dewy air; let
Droplets shimmer in my hair, that
Rested on my tranquil head – as
In a sense of cosy bed.

As I ventured to the wood,
A gesturing cuckoo perched above,
And then in song with cooing dove,
‘You're welcome’, bade he, ’Enter please
To roam our land with gentle breeze.’

As I ventured to the wood,
A fallow deer of limpid eye
Gave care to glance at lucky I.
The heavenly aura 'bout her glow had
Charmed me, like a fine Bordeaux.

As I ventured to the wood,
A dazzling flower waved her face
In blazing show of dance and chase, and
Reddened bright in shade of dawn, she
Flirted like a prancing fawn.

As I ventured to the wood,
A butterfly had graced my arm,
And knowing I bid him no harm, he
Splayed for me hypnotic wing in
Colours for to urge me sing!

As I ventured to the wood,
The radiant sun shone down on me.
He flushed and beamed ‘I say to thee,
You bless your land; be filled with pride, and
Cherish e’er yon countryside! ’

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
All rights reserved

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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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The Rosciad

Unknowing and unknown, the hardy Muse
Boldly defies all mean and partial views;
With honest freedom plays the critic's part,
And praises, as she censures, from the heart.

Roscius deceased, each high aspiring player
Push'd all his interest for the vacant chair.
The buskin'd heroes of the mimic stage
No longer whine in love, and rant in rage;
The monarch quits his throne, and condescends
Humbly to court the favour of his friends;
For pity's sake tells undeserved mishaps,
And, their applause to gain, recounts his claps.
Thus the victorious chiefs of ancient Rome,
To win the mob, a suppliant's form assume;
In pompous strain fight o'er the extinguish'd war,
And show where honour bled in every scar.
But though bare merit might in Rome appear
The strongest plea for favour, 'tis not here;
We form our judgment in another way;
And they will best succeed, who best can pay:
Those who would gain the votes of British tribes,
Must add to force of merit, force of bribes.
What can an actor give? In every age
Cash hath been rudely banish'd from the stage;
Monarchs themselves, to grief of every player,
Appear as often as their image there:
They can't, like candidate for other seat,
Pour seas of wine, and mountains raise of meat.
Wine! they could bribe you with the world as soon,
And of 'Roast Beef,' they only know the tune:
But what they have they give; could Clive do more,
Though for each million he had brought home four?
Shuter keeps open house at Southwark fair,
And hopes the friends of humour will be there;
In Smithfield, Yates prepares the rival treat
For those who laughter love, instead of meat;
Foote, at Old House,--for even Foote will be,
In self-conceit, an actor,--bribes with tea;
Which Wilkinson at second-hand receives,
And at the New, pours water on the leaves.
The town divided, each runs several ways,
As passion, humour, interest, party sways.
Things of no moment, colour of the hair,
Shape of a leg, complexion brown or fair,
A dress well chosen, or a patch misplaced,
Conciliate favour, or create distaste.
From galleries loud peals of laughter roll,
And thunder Shuter's praises; he's so droll.
Embox'd, the ladies must have something smart,

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poem by Charles Churchill
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A Country Path in Late Spring

The path of mossy ground nestled
In between maternal hedgerows,
That overgrew atop, dimming down
The brilliance of the day.
Embosomed, a calm-cool vision –
Abstract takes of nature, in
Leaf-spattered green shades;
Stem-speckled brown hues;
Shards of sunlight percolating
Through the random flaws to
Up glittering sprites upon the leaves.

And avian chatter bounced along the burrow,
Smattered by the crosstalk
Of busybody insects;
But outside the green comfort zone,
Other worlds of other sounds of other life
Otherwise gave a hint of
Other dozy goings on.

Hawthorn filled the air,
Filled the nose,
Filled the head –
Pungency had overpowered all –
Gave the late-spring-early-summer haze.

Here and there a break of colour:
Odd bluebells – escapees from nearby woods –
Blue-blushing bell faces glancing down,
Aware of their erectness in the stem;
The flaming wing of red admirals
Broke through a hedge hole to
Break up the calm backdrop,
While flitting blue tits gave
To greater-bodied animation.

Nature’s warm narration –
The undertones of life.

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010

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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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U R Wrong

u were wrong... so wrong.. uh uh uh huh uh.
u were wrong dead wrong.. uh uh uh whoaaaaaaa
Girl U R said your wrong wrong said your wrong wrong
Girl U R said your wrong wrong said your wrong wrong
verse1: can i take you back to happy times..
oh oh oh uh oh
everyday was paradise.. dinner and candle lights
oh oh oh uh oh
i never thought you'd change i didn't expect no games
i wanted you to bare my child i wanted you to have my last name
now we was right we was wrong
i really don't care cuz i gotta move one
i'm gone be a man about it
the headache i can live without it
chorus: Girl (you act so shady) U (spend all of my paper R ( one heck of a lady) said ur wrong wrong said ur wrong wrong
Girl ( i don't codone it ) U ( and you can't erase it) R (one heck of a lady) said ur wrong wrong said your wrong wrong
Girl ( u tired to play) U (had a house and a baby) R ( one heck of a lady) said ur wrong wrong said ur wrong wrong
Girl ( u were wrong ) u( so wrong ) R (dead wrong said your wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong.
verse2: now i admit sometime i make mistakes..
oh oh oh mmmhmmmm
the responsibility of this household was your to take
"well"
i gave you the keys to the range.. broke you off a lil bit of change
ain't no need to explain.. your gonna miss a good thang
and when it's gone away i ain't got time to play
women you had a chance a chance to stay baby baby
chorus: Girl (you act so shady) U (spend all of my paper R ( one heck of a lady) said ur wrong wrong said ur wrong wrong
Girl ( i don't codone it ) U ( and you can't erase it) R (one heck of a lady) said ur wrong wrong said your wrong wrong
Girl ( u tired to play) U (had a house and a baby) R ( one heck of a lady) said ur wrong wrong said ur wrong wrong
Girl ( u were wrong ) u( so wrong ) R (dead wrong said your wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong.
i picked you up when you were down( when your luck ran out.. baby yes i did)
i took you in when theyput you out ( do you remember that cold monday morning?)
i treated you kids like they was mine( i ain't even they real damn daddynononnono )
when you were dim i made you shine( i was the diamond in your life baby)
chorus: Girl ( girl) u (u) R ( are) wrong wrong wrong wrong
Girl ( girl) u (u) R ( are) wrong wrong wrong wrong
Girl ( girl) u (u) R ( are) wrong wrong wrong wrong
Girl ( girl) u (u) R ( are) wrong wrong wrong wrong
can i break it down fora mineut baby
tell you.. why your wrong
you were wrong staying out all night
coming in sloppy drunk baby
and you were wrong for letting your friend direct your mind
and you were wrong for running up my credit card
and you were wrong for everything you've done to me.
(chorus)
ain't no explination this time.

song performed by 3pc
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911 Is A Joke

Now I dialed nine one one a long time ago
Dont you see how late theyre reactin
They only come, and they come when they wanna
So get the morgue truck em back the goner
They dont care cause they stay paid anyway
They treat you like an ace that cant be betrayed
I know you stumble with no use people
If your life is on the line, then youre dead today
Late comings with the late comin stretcher -
Thats a body bag in disguise - yall Ill betcha
I call em body snatchers
Quick they come to fetch you -
With an autopsy ambulance just to dissect ya
They are the kings cos they swing amputation
Lose your arms your legs the famous compilation
I can prove it to you watch the rotation
It all adds up to a funky situation
Get up, get get down
911 is a joke in yo town
Get up, get get down
Late 911 wears the late crown
(chorus)
(ow)
911 is a joke , 911 is a joke
Everyday they dont never come correct
You can ask my man right here with the broken neck
Hes a witness to the job never bein done
He wouldve been in full effect , 911
Is a joke because their always jokin
They the token to your life when its croakin
They need to be in a pawn shop on a 911 -
Is a joke we dont want em
I call a cab cause a cab will come quicker
The doctors huddle up and call a flea flicker
The reason that I say that cause they
Flick you off like fleas
They be laughin at ya while youre crawlin on our knees
And to the strength, so go the length
Thinkin you are first when you really are tenth
You better wake up and smell the real flavor
Cause 911 is a fake life saver
(chorus) (chorus)
Ow, ow 911 is a joke
911 is a joke,
911 is a joke,
911 is a joke, 911 is a joke.
(get up, get get down)
911 is a joke, 911 is a joke, 911 is a joke
(get up, get get down)
911 is a joke, 911 is a joke, 911 is a joke

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song performed by Duran Duran
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Gaia’s Plan

Please, don’t sweep the leaves away –
Their essence gives to life’s decay.

Never hack the flowers down –
Their colours bless the laughing clown.

Now why the mowing of the lawn?
The severed grass will lie forlorn.

Let our flora live undressed,
Or under Man, will toil repressed!

I, the tree of standing still –
Erect and proud, and stout of will,
Aglow with motley bark of earth –
Advance my roots for all they’re worth,
Internalising Nature’s bowels
To snag the devil, tweak his jowls
And pull his hairs from whence they grow!
I’ll destroy his pagan show
Of Homo sapiens’ disrespect!

The humble ape must reconnect
With Gaia’s plan!

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010

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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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An Essay on Criticism

Part I

INTRODUCTION. That it is as great a fault to judge ill as to write ill, and a more dangerous one to the public. That a true Taste is as rare to be found as a true Genius. That most men are born with some Taste, but spoiled by false education. The multitude of Critics, and causes of them. That we are to study our own Taste, and know the limits of it. Nature the best guide of judgment. Improved by Art and rules, which are but methodized Nature. Rules derived from the practice of the ancient poets. That therefore the ancients are necessary to be studied by a Critic, particularly Homer and Virgil. Of licenses, and the use of them by the ancients. Reverence due to the ancients, and praise of them.

'Tis hard to say if greater want of skill
Appear in writing or in judging ill;
But of the two less dangerous is th'offence
To tire our patience than mislead our sense:
Some few in that, but numbers err in this;
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss;
A fool might once himself alone expose;
Now one in verse makes many more in prose.

'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own.
In Poets as true Genius is but rare,
True Taste as seldom is the Critic's share;
Both must alike from Heav'n derive their light,
These born to judge, as well as those to write.
Let such teach others who themselves excel,
And censure freely who have written well;
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true,
But are not Critics to their judgment too?

Yet if we look more closely, we shall find
Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind:
Nature affords at least a glimm'ring light;
The lines, tho' touch'd but faintly, are drawn right:
But as the slightest sketch, if justly traced,
Is by ill col'ring but the more disgraced,
So by false learning is good sense defaced:
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,
And some made coxcombs Nature meant but fools:
In search of wit these lose their common sense,
And then turn Critics in their own defence:
Each burns alike, who can or cannot write,
Or with a rival's or an eunuch's spite.
All fools have still an itching to deride,
And fain would be upon the laughing side.
If Mævius scribble in Apollo's spite,
There are who judge still worse than he can write.

Some have at first for Wits, then Poets pass'd;
Turn'd Critics next, and prov'd plain Fools at last.
Some neither can for Wits nor Critics pass,
As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass.
Those half-learn'd witlings, numerous in our isle,
As half-form'd insects on the banks of Nile;
Unfinish'd things, one knows not what to call,

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poem by Alexander Pope
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XI. Guido

You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock

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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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The Castle Of Indolence

The castle hight of Indolence,
And its false luxury;
Where for a little time, alas!
We lived right jollily.

O mortal man, who livest here by toil,
Do not complain of this thy hard estate;
That like an emmet thou must ever moil,
Is a sad sentence of an ancient date:
And, certes, there is for it reason great;
For, though sometimes it makes thee weep and wail,
And curse thy star, and early drudge and late;
Withouten that would come a heavier bale,
Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale.
In lowly dale, fast by a river's side,
With woody hill o'er hill encompass'd round,
A most enchanting wizard did abide,
Than whom a fiend more fell is no where found.
It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground;
And there a season atween June and May,
Half prankt with spring, with summer half imbrown'd,
A listless climate made, where, sooth to say,
No living wight could work, ne cared even for play.
Was nought around but images of rest:
Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between;
And flowery beds that slumbrous influence kest,
From poppies breathed; and beds of pleasant green,
Where never yet was creeping creature seen.
Meantime, unnumber'd glittering streamlets play'd,
And hurled every where their waters sheen;
That, as they bicker'd through the sunny glade,
Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.
Join'd to the prattle of the purling rills
Were heard the lowing herds along the vale,
And flocks loud bleating from the distant hills,
And vacant shepherds piping in the dale:
And, now and then, sweet Philomel would wail,
Or stock-doves plain amid the forest deep,
That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale;
And still a coil the grasshopper did keep;
Yet all these sounds yblent inclined all to sleep.
Full in the passage of the vale, above,
A sable, silent, solemn forest stood;
Where nought but shadowy forms was seen to move,
As Idless fancied in her dreaming mood:
And up the hills, on either side, a wood
Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro,
Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood;
And where this valley winded out, below,
The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow.

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poem by James Thomson
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The Pleasures of Imagination: Book The First

With what attractive charms this goodly frame
Of nature touches the consenting hearts
Of mortal men; and what the pleasing stores
Which beauteous imitation thence derives
To deck the poet's, or the painter's toil;
My verse unfolds. Attend, ye gentle powers
Of musical delight! and while i sing
Your gifts, your honours, dance around my strain.
Thou, smiling queen of every tuneful breast,
Indulgent Fancy! from the fruitful banks
Of Avon, whence thy rosy fingers cull
Fresh flowers and dews to sprinkle on the turf
Where Shakespeare lies, be present: and with thee
Let Fiction come, upon her vagrant wings
Wafting ten thousand colours through the air,
Which, by the glances of her magic eye,
She blends and shifts at will, through countless forms,
Her wild creation. Goddess of the lyre,
Which rules the accents of the moving sphere,
Wilt thou, eternal Harmony! descend
And join this festive train? for with thee comes
The guide, the guardian of their lovely sports,
Majestic Truth; and where Truth deigns to come,
Her sister Liberty will not be far.
Be present all ye Genii, who conduct
The wandering footsteps of the youthful bard,
New to your springs and shades: who touch his ear
With finer sounds: who heighten to his eye
The bloom of nature, and before him turn
The gayest, happiest attitude of things.

Oft have the laws of each poetic strain
The critic-verse imploy'd; yet still unsung
Lay this prime subject, though importing most
A poet's name: for fruitless is the attempt,
By dull obedience and by creeping toil
Obscure to conquer the severe ascent
Of high Parnassus. Nature's kindling breath
Must fire the chosen genius; nature's hand
Must string his nerves, and imp his eagle-wings
Impatient of the painful steep, to soar
High as the summit; there to breathe at large
Æthereal air: with bards and sages old,
Immortal sons of praise. These flattering scenes
To this neglected labour court my song;
Yet not unconscious what a doubtful task
To paint the finest features of the mind,
And to most subtile and mysterious things
Give colour, strength, and motion. But the love
Of nature and the muses bids explore,

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poem by Mark Akenside
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The Four Seasons : Spring

Come, gentle Spring! ethereal Mildness! come,
And from the bosom of yon dropping cloud,
While music wakes around, veil'd in a shower
Of shadowing roses, on our plains descend.
O Hertford, fitted or to shine in courts
With unaffected grace, or walk the plain
With innocence and meditation join'd
In soft assemblage, listen to my song,
Which thy own Season paints; when Nature all
Is blooming and benevolent, like thee.
And see where surly Winter passes off,
Far to the north, and calls his ruffian blasts:
His blasts obey, and quit the howling hill,
The shatter'd forest, and the ravaged vale;
While softer gales succeed, at whose kind touch,
Dissolving snows in livid torrents lost,
The mountains lift their green heads to the sky.
As yet the trembling year is unconfirm'd,
And Winter oft at eve resumes the breeze,
Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets
Deform the day delightless: so that scarce
The bittern knows his time, with bill ingulf'd,
To shake the sounding marsh; or from the shore
The plovers when to scatter o'er the heath,
And sing their wild notes to the listening waste
At last from Aries rolls the bounteous sun,
And the bright Bull receives him. Then no more
The expansive atmosphere is cramp'd with cold
But, full of life and vivifying soul,
Lifts the light clouds sublime, and spreads then thin,
Fleecy, and white, o'er all-surrounding heaven.
Forth fly the tepid airs: and unconfined,
Unbinding earth, the moving softness strays.
Joyous, the impatient husbandman perceives
Relenting Nature, and his lusty steers
Drives from their stalls, to where the well used plough
Lies in the furrow, loosen'd from the frost.
There, unrefusing, to the harness'd yoke
They lend their shoulder, and begin their toil,
Cheer'd by the simple song and soaring lark.
Meanwhile incumbent o'er the shining share
The master leans, removes the obstructing clay,
Winds the whole work, and sidelong lays the glebe
While through the neighbouring fields the sowe stalks,
With measured step, and liberal throws the grain
Into the faithful bosom of the ground;
The harrow follows harsh, and shuts the scene.
Be gracious, Heaven! for now laborious Man
Has done his part. Ye fostering breezes, blow!
Ye softening dews, ye tender showers, descend!

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poem by James Thomson
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Canto the Fourth

I.

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;
A palace and a prison on each hand:
I saw from out the wave her structures rise
As from the stroke of the enchanter’s wand:
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand
Around me, and a dying glory smiles
O’er the far times when many a subject land
Looked to the wingèd Lion’s marble piles,
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles!

II.

She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,
Rising with her tiara of proud towers
At airy distance, with majestic motion,
A ruler of the waters and their powers:
And such she was; her daughters had their dowers
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East
Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers.
In purple was she robed, and of her feast
Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased.

III.

In Venice, Tasso’s echoes are no more,
And silent rows the songless gondolier;
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,
And music meets not always now the ear:
Those days are gone - but beauty still is here.
States fall, arts fade - but Nature doth not die,
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear,
The pleasant place of all festivity,
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy!

IV.

But unto us she hath a spell beyond
Her name in story, and her long array
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond
Above the dogeless city’s vanished sway;
Ours is a trophy which will not decay
With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor,
And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away -
The keystones of the arch! though all were o’er,
For us repeopled were the solitary shore.

V.

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poem by Byron from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (1818)
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Thirteen Lines

A brain peered through stoic eyes;
Yet all it saw was rendered into
Flawed interpretation –
No honoured contemplation of a
Gluon, muon, quark of any flavour;
Nor a vision or conception of its world
Within a universe anthropic in its physical laws,
Inside a boundless multiverse.
All it gleaned and modelled
Bore parochialism well beyond belief! –
Delusional perhaps.
Survival only matters here on planet Earth –
Evolution saw to that.

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010

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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Lies

Baby
What do I do
Playing my tune for you
Just to get you in the mood
Everybodys going to hollywood
Youre driving me mad
But Im smiling to the crowd instead
A lot of money is at stake, this is a hit and thats a fake
This is what you mean to me
This is what they all should see
Make a make up in a foolish style
Telling the truth by making a big lie
When I come, I come but nothings at ease
Breaking up the whole is a modern disease
Maybe you think tomorrows just a joke
Its a joke after joke after joke after joke
My love
Everythings an interview
And nothings really new
And everybodys looking for clues and you know what to do with a clue
My love
Get ready for the show
Theyre waiting and they will never go
This night is just a go
And its only for show
Dig that deal and be a millionaire
Drinking cocktails in the stratosphere
Getting jetlagged with my business friends in these supersonic wonderlands
Theres a flicker on the graphic display, first hes smiling then hes fading away
Maybe he thinks tomorrows just a joke
Its a joke after joke after joke after joke
Gold/1984

song performed by Alphaville
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Farewell

_P_. Farewell to Europe, and at once farewell
To all the follies which in Europe dwell;
To Eastern India now, a richer clime,
Richer, alas! in everything but rhyme,
The Muses steer their course; and, fond of change,
At large, in other worlds, desire to range;
Resolved, at least, since they the fool must play,
To do it in a different place, and way.
_F_. What whim is this, what error of the brain,
What madness worse than in the dog-star's reign?
Why into foreign countries would you roam,
Are there not knaves and fools enough at home?
If satire be thy object--and thy lays
As yet have shown no talents fit for praise--
If satire be thy object, search all round,
Nor to thy purpose can one spot be found
Like England, where, to rampant vigour grown,
Vice chokes up every virtue; where, self-sown,
The seeds of folly shoot forth rank and bold,
And every seed brings forth a hundredfold.
_P_. No more of this--though Truth, (the more our shame,
The more our guilt) though Truth perhaps may claim,
And justify her part in this, yet here,
For the first time, e'en Truth offends my ear;
Declaim from morn to night, from night to morn,
Take up the theme anew, when day's new-born,
I hear, and hate--be England what she will,
With all her faults, she is my country still.
_F_. Thy country! and what then? Is that mere word
Against the voice of Reason to be heard?
Are prejudices, deep imbibed in youth,
To counteract, and make thee hate the truth?
'Tis sure the symptom of a narrow soul
To draw its grand attachment from the whole,
And take up with a part; men, not confined
Within such paltry limits, men design'd
Their nature to exalt, where'er they go,
Wherever waves can roll, and winds can blow,
Where'er the blessed sun, placed in the sky
To watch this subject world, can dart his eye,
Are still the same, and, prejudice outgrown,
Consider every country as their own;
At one grand view they take in Nature's plan,
Not more at home in England than Japan.
_P_. My good, grave Sir of Theory, whose wit,
Grasping at shadows, ne'er caught substance yet,
'Tis mighty easy o'er a glass of wine
On vain refinements vainly to refine,
To laugh at poverty in plenty's reign,
To boast of apathy when out of pain,

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poem by Charles Churchill
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The Joke's On Me

The old days were no fun
Im not sorry that they're gone
I don't miss them and I won't miss them
and it was always wrong
Everything I've ever done
From the beginning and to the ending
and things never got better, it seems like forever
Since we had fun or maybe I never have fun
And this whole time! I've been around
One minute up!
and a hundred down uhhh ohhh
Keep on laughing, Keep attacking
I'll show you what it means
To keep on lying, Keep denying
That there's nothing good in me
I'm not worthless, I know you heard this
My life's a joke and the joke's on me
The joke's on me
You were always lame, a headache and a pain
I don't miss you and I won't miss you
I tried not to get bitter but I was such a quitter
Oh yeah I had dreams but they were only ever bad dreams
And this whole time! I've been around
One minute up!
and a hundred down uhhh ohhh
Keep on laughing, Keep attacking
I'll show you what it means
To keep on lying, Keep denying
That there's nothing good in me
I'm not worthless, I know you heard this
My life's a joke and the joke's on me
The joke's on me, The joke's on me...
Well there never were any good old days
Looking back I'm still amazed
How everything went wrong in every way
There were no good old days
Well there never were any good old days
Looking back I'm still amazed
That everything went wrong in every way
There were no good old days
[2x]
And this whole time! I've been around
One minute up!
and a hundred down uhhh ohhh
Keep on laughing, Keep attacking
I'll show you what it means
To keep on lying, Keep denying
That there's nothing good in me
I'm not worthless, I know you heard this
My life's a joke and the joke's on me...

song performed by Reel Big Fish
Added by Lucian Velea
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Right The Wrong

An indian woman buried her grampa in the black hills
When she was young he used to tell her
That these hills belonged to her still
And even though injustice took them hills away
One day well get them back, he said
And the suns gonna shine that day
When we say, right the wrong
Before she laid him down to rest
She heard his voice in the wilderness
Sayin I got six feet of it back
And now we can right the wrong
Right the wrong
Hear the song
Before long u wont hear nothin but the crackle of flames
Right the wrong
Hear the song
Would u rather die knowing that u did or keep living in shame
Did you hear the one about the boy just 17
Three years hard time for stealing ice cream
First offence and all his dreams are gone
How long before they right the wrong?
Right the wrong
Hear the song
Before long u wont hear nothin but the crackle of flames
Right the wrong
Hear the song
Would u rather die knowing that u did or keep living in shame
Right the wrong
2, 3, uh
1, 2, 1-2, come on
(right the wrong baby)
Far be it from me to say
It seem like we could stop the flow of snow in the sky today
But I guess the weather man he likes the rain
Aint that insane
Now sing
Right the wrong
Hear the song
Before long u wont hear nothin but the crackle of flames
Right the wrong
Hear the song
Would u rather die knowing that u did or keep living in shame?
(come on, come on, come on)
Did you hear me baby?
Right the wrong
Im 6 feet in the grave
Im 6 feet in the grave
(right right, right right)
(right the wrong right the wrong)
(right the wrong right the wrong)

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song performed by Prince
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Ghost - Book IV

Coxcombs, who vainly make pretence
To something of exalted sense
'Bove other men, and, gravely wise,
Affect those pleasures to despise,
Which, merely to the eye confined,
Bring no improvement to the mind,
Rail at all pomp; they would not go
For millions to a puppet-show,
Nor can forgive the mighty crime
Of countenancing pantomime;
No, not at Covent Garden, where,
Without a head for play or player,
Or, could a head be found most fit,
Without one player to second it,
They must, obeying Folly's call,
Thrive by mere show, or not at all
With these grave fops, who, (bless their brains!)
Most cruel to themselves, take pains
For wretchedness, and would be thought
Much wiser than a wise man ought,
For his own happiness, to be;
Who what they hear, and what they see,
And what they smell, and taste, and feel,
Distrust, till Reason sets her seal,
And, by long trains of consequences
Insured, gives sanction to the senses;
Who would not (Heaven forbid it!) waste
One hour in what the world calls Taste,
Nor fondly deign to laugh or cry,
Unless they know some reason why;
With these grave fops, whose system seems
To give up certainty for dreams,
The eye of man is understood
As for no other purpose good
Than as a door, through which, of course,
Their passage crowding, objects force,
A downright usher, to admit
New-comers to the court of Wit:
(Good Gravity! forbear thy spleen;
When I say Wit, I Wisdom mean)
Where (such the practice of the court,
Which legal precedents support)
Not one idea is allow'd
To pass unquestion'd in the crowd,
But ere it can obtain the grace
Of holding in the brain a place,
Before the chief in congregation
Must stand a strict examination.
Not such as those, who physic twirl,
Full fraught with death, from every curl;

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poem by Charles Churchill
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