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Nine Blake poems

Amy, Amy

Amy, Amy, turning white
In the wynehouse of the night,
What the needle drave & drew
Thy sailor's Betty Boop tattoo?

In what mood & in what wise
Rise the wings beside thine eyes?
Why thy warpaint? Why thy stare?
How the bouffance of thine hair?

What the pow'r, & what the soul
Gives thy smoky voice controll?
Why the rehab? what the ache?
Where your husband, also Blake?

When the Spice Girls hit the chart,
What the point? & where their art?
With what blues dost thou break free?
Who made them did not make thee.

Amy, Amy, turning white
In the wynehouse of the night,
What mere mortal anguish'd cry
Dare match thy fearful artistry?

Hear the voice of the Bor'd!

Hear the voice of the Bor'd!
Who Present, Past & Past-It views;
Whose eyes are furr'd
By ev'ry Word
That's talk'd up on the nightly news,

Testing the last Poll,
Inspecting it for what it means;
That takes its toll
Of evr'y Soul
That gazes on the evening screens!

'O Mouth, O Mouth be still!
Surprise us not by reading runes;
Hear our scorn,
As we yawn
Hearing naught but half-sung tunes.

'Churn your stats no more;
Why wilt thou chunter so?
The hoary bore
That haunts the door
Is giv'n leave to rise and go.'

O Woes, thou run thick!

O Woes, thou run thick!
The invisible eye
That spies on the night,
Like the foulest Fly,

Has recorded thy moves
Without a smile:
And thy innocent walk
Has been stored on file.

The Cam

David Cam, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Smooth'd thy brows & oil'd thy tongue,
Made thy saddle firm & sprung:
Tun'd thy vowels & made them stern,
Promis'd to thee Buggin's turn:
Gave thee such an earnest voice,
Made thee Middle England's choice?
David Cam, who built thee?
Is there none to jilt thee?


And were these Gifts in Ancient Time
Ever the cause of mounting scream?
Or was it Tony's word of God
Kept Party noses squeak'd & clean?

And did Accountants then divine
Why proxy bungs pay'd off our bills?
And was Bambuzalem builded here
While we pass'd round the Panic Pills?

Send back the Crock of Tarnish'd Gold:
Send back the Barrows undesir'd;
Send Bishops forth: all Cheques on hold!
Send back what Harriet acquir'd.

I curse this Accidental Plight,
For I am Gordon & my Brand
Will swift unbuild Bambuzalem
In Britain's Brown & Prudent Land.

Auguries Of Innocence

To take the World with a Grain of Snuff
And see the Earth by Ruin Wrack'd,
Hold Celebrity to be solid Stuff
And Psephology pure Fact.

A River bursting thro' its Banks
Brings the Leader many thanks.
When Foot & Mouth has not been spread,
The Leader earns his daily Cred.
The CD-ROM that goes astray,
Predicts there will be Hell to pay.
He who doth not call a Poll,
None shall sanctify his Soul.
The Croat head & Russian boot
Cause the Crowd to howl & hoot.
A Cricket Score shewn on a Page,
The Reader's Mouth doth Foam & Rage.
The clenching of a Henman's Fist
Proves that Hope cannot exist.
A Liar is the Union's guest,
The Tongue of Reason is suppress'd.
Ev'ry new Academy
Hath nought to teach the Fool & Flea.
Tho' Death invade the Northern Line,
The Coward never will resign.
He who crows the Poppy Cock
Battens on the Northern Rock.
Those who eat the Witchetty Grubs
Poison'd live in Z-List Clubs.
That Lords & Ladies buy their Gongs
Is older than the Sirens' songs.
Nought can make the Phone Lines jam
Like to the Television scam.
That a Wag may have her cream & purr
Shall ne'er relieve them in Darfur.
The canker of Celebrity
Breeds fungus on the Apple Tree.
He whose Passport wears a Smile
Shall be taken for a Trial.
The Tapeworm & the Liver Fluke
Are Queen & Prince & Earl & Duke.
Diamonds crusted on a Skull
Are the work of Bawd & Trull.
They who lie on Desart Sands
Have Blood upon their Heads & Hands.
Cato's morals are not seen
On the Couch Potato's screen.
The Minister will not get far
Who vanish'd is to Panama,
Some will not Believe it True,
To find his Paddle & Canoe.
God compiles His final Casebook
By finding Enemies on Facebook.


I wander thro' each tarted street,
Near where down-hearted Shoppers fight,
And mark in every pair of feet
Marks of madness, marks of fright.

In every sigh and every sale,
In every Shopper's wail of fear,
In every choice, & tooth & nail,
The mindless credit cards appear.

How the Postman's sudden knock
Every dark'ning door appalls,
And the Credit Statement's shock
Ecchoes thro' the Shopping Malls.

But most thro' London's streets I scent
The threat of Debt in every purse,
How Necks are bow'd & Heads are bent,
And Mammon is the daily Curse.

Unholy Wednesday

'Twas on Unholy Wednesday, their faces bright & beer'd,
Supporters walking in a Throng & Victory to be cheared;
Shave-headed Players strok'd the Ball & kick'd it to & fro,
And underneath high Wembley's dome did like the Lethe flow.

O what a Paltry Crew they seem'd, these Players English-bred!
Angels though they look'd, their Boots were heavier than Lead.
The din of multitudes was dimm'd, the multitudes in Stands,
Thousands who Howl'd to see the Ball slip thro' the Keeper's Hands.

Now after mighty Raspberry, the watchers ceas'd their Sound,
And with ferocious Mutterings they star'd toward the Ground.
Beneath them sat the Managers, soon Managers no more.
And perish all their Pity, when they needed but a draw.

A Poison Tree

I was pictur'd with a friend;
I sold our love, our love did end.
I was pictur'd with her foe;
I sold it not, our love did grow.

And it irk'd me that our glee
Did not earn a cent for me;
So I sold it after all,
So the redtops came to call.

And we were, to my delight,
In the news both day & night,
And my love, whose teeth did gnash,
Sold her story, for more cash,

And the Star & Mirror bid
For the tale of what was hid.
And for what I did confess
I am a Love Rat in the press.

Nine Blake poems
250 years after his birth, here is a glimpse of what William Blake would have made of 2007.
26 December 2007


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