Long Live the Helix
I have no culture, I have no personality
I have no context and I have no nationality
The pavements, wet with rain, reflect the stars
And lost souls travel in abandoned cars.
No fear have I, no urge, no attitude
The shapeless music puts me in no mood
To chase the killer through the empty streets
Where empty Buddha kills each man he meets.
February Fill Dyke
The detailed architecture of a house
Is lost within the boredom of the street
Ornately reaching out across the map.
The brightly-coloured textures of torment
When viewed from far away become
An infinite divisibility.
Twenty years of working life march on;
A smooth parade of one-off days
Each different from the rest and yet the same
Somewhere in the complex hides the simple;
Patterns lie submerged and each in turn
Conceals what seems at first to be but plain.
When every cloud is fringed with light
As evening fades, then all the moments
Standing still become at last the whole.
Somewhere on a council estate in Leeds
A teenage girl tries hard to concentrate
On biochemistry; time and again she reads
How cells use RNA to deftly fabricate
Their unseen protein rosaries, which then arise
In triumph, building hands, and heart, and eyes.
But I suspect Sir David does not really care
Much for the workings of the mitochondrion
For he’s had something new done to his hair
And it dominates the front page of The Sun.
Land fit for heroes, or just a place
Where judgement kneels before a pretty face?