Electric baby syrup

Electric baby syrup

A Poem by Terpsichore

Here they come again through the strobe shadow rain,
hunched between Popeye houses,
the Russian closet poets wearing thin disguises,
playing with verbal vegetables,
the worst tillers of the voiced soil
since the days of Cain.

And the oilskinned ants arrived today
and it's rained all blasted week
and the lotus seeds are ruined again
and the vision master is acting crazy.
He wants to make another baby,
but everything has gone
three legged race hazy,
and the owl and pussycat
don't waste a second look,
just sail away to the crackle
of burning books.

Raindrops run on telephone wires,
little silvered messengers
of other peoples verbalisations,
the endless variety of never again
to be heard conversation
in this twisted land;
where concerned citizens
simply remain concerned.
And I hear the far distant screaming,
the barks and coughs, they
nearly blew me holy hat right off,
made me jump right out of me clogs,
leaving exclamation marks
arranged in circles
round me ever twinkling feet,
whilst scarecrows danced the tarantelle
and the crows closed in for a treat.

Strange things are occurring,
the cows eat pollution
and me old man's snoring
while his pacemaker goes on whirring
and then he ups and dies, 
just like that, on the spot,
with a top hat and a moustache,
just like a roadkill badger.

So we all left our bikes
propped in silence on bible walls
while the endangered honey bee...
and the weeds and plants grew...
like a fistful of violet mountains
improvident as the dawn
and once more and again...
we fall.

So one final time we hunt
for shots of penicillin
in the cobwebbed pharmacy,
just one more little bottle
of electric baby syrup,
old copybooks of accounts.
Einstein was right,
there are no decimal points here,
just staggered columns 
of handwritten figures
and several acres of old disused tin mines,
millions of toxic blooded heroes
and the meek whisper of time.

Now we are twined up
in wraiths of sea fog,
standing and staring pointlessly
as if resigned to fate,
like lonely dogs in a forgotten kennel;
and somewhere out there is a donkey
honking like a dry pump,
yearning for one more far, fierce hour,
when he will turn left instead of right
and finally have his day in the sun,
oh, how G K Chesterton was so right.

And then there is just silence
and it makes us jump,
and we all helpless
and plain foolish, here in this 
world of decimated opportunity.
Perhaps this would be a good time
to endeavour to love
one another all we possibly 
can until the day we die; 
or at least, we could promise
solemnly to at least try 
one last time.

© 2016 Terpsichore

My Review

Would you like to review this Poem?
Login | Register


I admire & deeply envy your ability to spiel off an endless stream of creatively-crafted outlandish images & ideas, abstract, but clearly conjuring up mind visions that lead us to some distinct conclusions about life. It's amazing to see this was posted in 2016, which makes it timeless poetry, since it relates so perfectly to today's chaotic madness. You have one of the richest imaginations & even more admirable becuz you sustain this high level of sparkling "WOW!" over such a long poem without any duds along the way (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

Posted 2 Years Ago

Superb imagery!
Great thoughts and message!

Posted 6 Years Ago

This was pleasantly surprising and intriguing; a wonderful distraction from the mundane. I greatly enjoyed the trip down the path seldom taken. I'm certainly all in favor of love. Blessings of peace, love and light.

Posted 7 Years Ago

Cor blimey, this one is crammed with ideas and imagery that would put many aspiring wordsmiths to shame. There are simply far too many fine lines here that I would have personally been very proud to have penned myself. Bravo my fine literary friend. All Good Things, N

Posted 7 Years Ago

whether the writing is good or bad in books these days, i am already starting to miss them...all of this e-book stuff..i like turning pages and reading that way...
but there is also something about the depth of society...we are a world of technology...of texting (English teachers hate that) shortcuts of language...the language being raped and pillaged..

so many things that have gone wrong...and there seems not much hope to bring it all back...but as your wonderful last stanza indicates...at least we can love each other...that way we can go down swinging together...

Posted 7 Years Ago

Thanks all. I enjoyed this bit of verbal play. Got to confess, like Woody, I don't entirely understand what I'm going on about; but it was fun.

I wonder if it is too late to kiss and make up?

Posted 7 Years Ago

What an imagination !!
A magical mystery tour with a difference. Blue meanies was all that was missing for me. We all may be off to Hell in a handcart but at least we'll be together T. Let's show old Nick how we go down with this ship.

Posted 7 Years Ago

Love your oilskinned ants and circles of exclamation marks. Like use of 'improvident'. Can hear the 'donkey honking like a dry pump' - know that left right mournfulness. I like the jagged shards of woe and mischance more than the hope in the last verse.

Posted 7 Years Ago

though I can't pretend to understand everything in this poem, I, nonetheless, enjoyed it tremendously. brilliant, Terps. my head is still reeling.
went back to pick favourites. found too many.

Posted 7 Years Ago

There is a bit of wry dystopian feel through much of this piece, but the final stanza is one of warmth and life-affirmation; normally, I'd say that you couldn't tuck the two together, but this piece is just so damn well built that it is not bumpy at all. To paraphrase the good Chesterton, the is no reason for an excess of criticism here.

Posted 7 Years Ago

First Page first
Previous Page prev
Share This
Request Read Request
Add to Library My Library
Subscribe Subscribe


11 Reviews
Added on February 24, 2016
Last Updated on May 15, 2016



London, United Kingdom

Nothing much to tell really. I work in the city, boring, but lucrative enough to enable me to spend most weekends away from the place. I enjoy writing, reading equally as much. Like retro style cloth.. more..


Related Writing

People who liked this story also liked..

Wish I Was Wish I Was

A Poem by BL

Chains Chains

A Poem by Beccy