Three score years and then

some,

ten?

Jean said

an allotment of words –

and then …

use ‘em up …

ya dead!

Freaky eh?

Yeh, well …

possibly true

likely false.
Someone of more repute than Jean

disputed …

‘What is truth?’

Wittgenstein opined

‘Whatever is the case.’

He might well be right.

Leaves the options open really.
Where is this place?

This third rock from the sun?

It’s on a gold plate

sent to space

not 3 score years back,

when a lamb’s leg was cracked

and the first sound

raced through OUR time / space continuum …

now wait a sec,

ya getting pretty tech-

nical.

Put another nickel in

the nickelodeon

Love these old times hits.

Mocking Bird Hill,

Killing me softly …
Ignorant of the devil

in the detail?

God knows.

Who the fuck was

Wittgenstein?

Some old poof
gaily holidayed in Norway

with his friend

called Sven.

And then

back to

Cambridge …

Oxford …

Does it matter?

Metallica didn’t think …

Who does?
But thus spake Zarathustra

I am the crucified …

or was that Nietzsche

Whose dad was sadly mad

and died

when his words were all

exhausted?

The gospel according to Jean.

If ya know what I mean …

I’m not so sure I do.

A black history

arching back

aching back

to older times …

signs were there,

Yanks were there

(oversexed)

(over-paid)

(over here).

Who wasn’t?

We all had to come.

Some succumbed …

a need

to sow some seed

in foreign weeds,

a rank unguarded garden path

leading

to

a new dark history.

Only you

may dig its mystery.
What is history?

One fucking thing

after another.

Some smart arse in

The History Boys

echo of some smart arse

1940s prof.

But

he said

One BLOODY thing

(after laughter, if you please).

… that’s history for you.

changes.

The old is new.

The new is old

i grow old

i grow old,

i’ll wear the bottoms of my trousers

in untold rolled up ways and byways

hike along some history’s highways.

What a fucking mystery

unless to be frank

I do it my way.
Black history,

dark history.

Don’t mention the war!

Whatever you do,

don’t mention the fucking war.

It saw you arrive.

Arrive and then survive.

Battles ever since

really.

You’ve won most

and now there’s three score years and then

some

and three score scars

and then some.
Women are from Venus

Men are from Mars.

Venus is quite scarred

but armless enough.

Joke Joyce!

Pathetic.

Bennett,

Thanks a bunch:

I had a hunch your play

could see the light of day

in something I had yet to say.

What’s a degree in Eng. Lit. all about

unless you get the right to shout

Matilda Told Such Dreadful Lies

and other mysteries

that much remain unmentioned.

Like Nietzsche’s Übermensch.

The will to power.

How ya goin/ and

howza ya father?

if not …

who’s ya father.

I’d

rather have my history

than blanc mange of mostly other lives.
My dad’s wife had style.

Like Fred

he’s dead:

so’s she.

Soon too we all will be.

Slow down the talk

mate.

What’s the hurry?

Ya won’t be late!

Ya don’t have ta worry mate.

Take ya time.

We’ve got eternity

and then some.

Like three score years and 10.
Keats said

Beauty’s truth

Truth is beauty;

That’s all you need to know

on earth.

Those ancient blokes

knew a thing or three

or seventy.

Scores of things –

and so do you.

Secrets not for sharing

because you care too much

and as such

l,

like the rest of us,

have

some dark dark history.

The mystery of your past is yours:

Tread lightly; don’t trample

all my Traumerie

Or else I die

It seems.
The whole world is a mystery.

Seven billion stories and …

Still counting.

Does it amount to

You?

Me?

She?

He?

Who are we?

As Gaugin said,

Cometh whence?

Tarry where?

Hasten hither?

We all must needs to

wither.

(Fade to black.)