Drain your glass, to the pass of fears,
steps mis-danced, toes crunched in tears,
can't believe I'm writing this cheer
for the year, of twenty fourteen.
Rant of old wives, Cant of new,
pullover knitted, threads pulled askew
to encase a carcase,
living and bound
to a bell
cracked, no perceptible sound
Knit way, knit away, you wize-end old hags,
you folk round embers, warded by gags,
guardians telegraphing signs through times,
independent of stars, suns and lines
grime of our type,
you work by candlelight,
bless yourselves in blessed rite
Still imprisoning self in tradition and lays,
laid by whims of hormones and stays:
rib of man, our whaleblone, bete noir
prop of our days and this present.
Count your stitches,
tally your knots,
bold are the wifey's
who stray from 'begots'.
They are the wifey's
who lay the new patterns,
for women, to weave their own dreams
Self, a maxim?
Punctuated compassion, interleaf
exposition, with love, interactive;
We are more than a rib.
We are pro-active,
We are life.
( We reive the world,
to foster our babes,
by favour's attraction,
so Rugby scrum thinkers
use this rejection, score odds
as manic protection,
for the lads.)
So, raise your glass
to magnify reason,
or dull your sense
in Paternal seasons.
We give a chance
for sporting reasons,
Homeostasis in Oubliette
Borderlines and typset faces
Underscore our choice of cases,
Where are we, but dead, in spaces
Seen, as yet unheard.
Peace and weapons
Scrive our reason,
Print our issues of the season,
In the memes that act as prism
For the human race.
We act in cells, as if in prison,
Forget infernal cell division, broker facts,
Amend our schisms, lose the whole
While signal fails.