Blind Pew

There is a formula for life, a bill
of quantities - one gross assorted bones,
one bag of nerves, one epidermis, black
or white, a skein of fur if you're a dog,
no eyes if you're a golden mole (they're blind),
two Presbyterian buttocks for the pew.

(Fat ones are better suited to the pew).
Assembly is prenatal, and the bill
is topped by birth. The cells divide in blind
obedience to their DNA, form bones,
muscles, organs, sinews, whether dog
or man it's all the same. It's down in black

and white, the double helix. You can black
your face or bleach it. You can shun the pew
and claim to be the Son of Man. Your dog
will never see the change. You are the bill
of fare that's printed deeper than your bones
as Long John Milton saw, and he was blind.

Predestination says - you're on a blind
adventure, never sure of when the black
spot will be thrust upon you. Though the bones
themselves rebel, it's best to grace the pew
and make believe your name is on the bill
of entry, till you're turned out like a dog.

Who knows? You might do well to be a dog.
Awake, a sensual beast; asleep, a blind
unconscious lump. Not worried by the bill
the taxman brings, you needn't fear the black
great-coated killjoy prophets from the pew,
content to crunch on liberated bones.

If Calvin built his sermons on the bones
of truth, he little knew how they would dog
with guilt his followers' lives, until the pew
seemed almost comfortable. He was blind
to niceties. His world was white or black -
a tick or cross, scribed on the heavenly bill.

So, beat your bones until your eyes are blind
or thrash your dog until your hands turn black.
Then take a pew. Your god will send the bill.

Dancing with Jim

One of the Beer Bar crowd was blind from birth.
We called him Jim. It might have been his name.
He carried a folded stick and hated dogs.
He said he'd rather barge about than trust
his life to a beast that liked to roll in crap;
besides, he said, he couldn't stand their smell.

He said it was a lie that sense of smell
or touch could be enhanced by blindness. Birth
denied him sight. It was a load of crap
to hint at hidden blessings. He said - Name
me ten blind millionaires! He put his trust
in guts and hated people more than dogs.

Detested, most of all, the cant that dogs
the life of the disabled. He could smell
hypocrisy at twenty yards. Why trust
the medics? They had botched a simple birth -
starved him of oxygen, then found a name
to hide behind. Professionals were crap.

One night he said - The devil wouldn't crap
in a dump like this. It's barely fit for dogs.
It's dirty, noisy, sweaty, male, to name
but four, and let's not kid ourselves, the smell
is like a public bog, an after-birth
of academia's labour. You can trust

a blind man's nose on this! Likewise, I'll trust
your judgement to escort me from this crap
to anywhere with women. (Here the birth
of an idea). Decent ones, no dogs,
don't palm me off on some old whore. I'd smell
her soon enough, before she'd said her name.

We took him to a night-club with a name
like Tramps or Trumps. They let us in, on trust.
In far too loud a voice, Jim said - the smell
of fresh young crumpet, better than the crap
we've left behind. Remember now, no dogs.
The white-eyed man gyrated, giving birth

to shapes without a name and scared the crap
from us. He'd placed his trust in faithless dogs.
The girlish smell of fear - his curse, from birth.