notoriously difficult to explain
funny-looking, spongy contraptions
buzzing with neuro-chemical interactions
like there’s something galactic
fizzing in the attic

quite what all this means I don’t know
I mean do YOU know where memories go?
when you’re alive it’s weird enough
your head filled with echoey stuff
but what about when you’re dead?
do the memories go somewhere else instead?

maybe they go into everything else
when you’re laid to rest and your brain slowly melts
it might explain the other day
when I went to visit dad’s grave
carnations singing invitingly
frank sinatra: come fly with me

the many faces of stanley

Stanley suffers from reincarnation
I don’t mean he used to be a chihuahua or dalmatian
or an alsatian
or a mongrel of questionable determination

it’s just – he’s got this range of faces
he uses at all times and places
the scientific basis
for one of the world’s most famous cases

his smiles are holier than Joan of Arc’s
he’s quicker with a lick than Groucho Marx
and his barks
are as sharp as Robert Shaw’s in that film about sharks

he’ll sashay as flashy as Ru Paul
howl like Callas at Carnegie Hall
and then sprawl
hairier and feistier than Asterix the Gaul

his grumbles are grumpier than Immanuel Kant’s
he’ll put the fear on you with a De Niro glance
then he pants
stares as wistfully out the window as Bruno Gantz

but most of the time he’s just Emily Dickinson
an airy, fairly inscrutable kinda citizen
but anyway, listen
we’re learning to cope with his condition