I think I’ll sit down and write,

Because I can’t sleep this night.

There’s no other reason why,

I just thought I’d give it a try.

See how long I can rhyme,

For what length of time.

When I’ll run out of steam

And sink into a dream.

The action of writing a line

Makes the mind dine,

On thoughts divine,

That brightly shine

For just a moment,

It’s almost a torment,

To feel them die

And fade into the night sky;

If speed of hand does not equal that of mind

And capture them before they descend.

Fittingly I just lost that thought’s thread,

So I’ll begin anew one instead.

It seems that my hand

Wasn’t as quick as my mind.

It’s four in the morning,

But I’m not yet yawning,

So I’ll continue to write,

Perhaps all night.

I’ll just ramble on,

‘Till the darkness has gone.

On any topic that strikes me,

Be it politics, art or philosophy.

Politics is my favourite,

I almost crave it.

Here are some of my views.

It is for you to choose,

If you agree with them,

But first you must hear them.

George Bush is thick

And an utter prick.

Gordon Brown is a bastard

And a complete hazard.

As for that bitch Thatcher,

If I ever catch her.

Milosevic, Regan, Pinochet and Sadam are dead

And have left this world they bled.

They will not be missed.

Upon their graves should be pissed.

By those truly noble,

But often called the rabble.

The soft left say socialism’s dead,

But they were never truly red.

The sooner capitalism’s finished,

World poverty will be diminished.

Socialism’s the future,

Capitalism’s the past.

It’s a dying creature,

It cannot last.

On politics my views are pretty clear,

So to another subject I will steer.

Most modern art,

I find lacks heart.

I almost feel hate,

For this art without an artistic trait.

Hollow profundity,

Instead of humanity.

They have nothing to say,

For a rather large pay.

I must be in the wrong game,

Because I wish mine was the same.

I like the classical form of art,

Which overwhelms your heart,

With awestruck emotions.

At such raw passions

I am transfixed,

By paint with feeling mixed.

The mastery of their technique,

Leaves me unable to speak.

Mesmerised by the beauty of their images,

Genius passed down through the ages.

Yet to be equalled, let alone surpassed,

Their glory echoes from out the past.

In the millions upon who’ve gazed,

Inspiration’s spirit has blazed.

And now to another subject,

On which I shall reflect.

In the realm of poetry,

I like Byron, Shakespeare and Shelley.

The modernists have the occasional good turn of phrase,

For which they have received their due share of praise.

But I find them far too formless

And incomprehensible.

Imbued with an irrational spiritualness,

Insensible.

Pseudo-intellectual mental masturbation,

Which causes my mind a great vexation.

They lack rhyme, rhythm and reason,

To me, it’s nothing less than poetic treason.

Poetry is to words what art is to images;

Their sound and meaning merges,

Into a perfect marriage of content and form,

Producing in the mind a symphonic storm.

When it comes to philosophy,

I find most of it sophistry.

I am a dialectical materialist

And consequently a realist,

But not the vulgar realism,

Of post-modernist cynicism.

I have faith in humanity,

To change our current reality

And usher in a new age.

When war will be consigned to history’s page,

Never more to return,

To plunder and cities burn.

Many think the present political system’s permanent

And any revolutionary energy’s wastefully spent,

But as was said by the genius Shelley:

‘Nought may endure but mutability’.

It’s only a matter of time,

Until capitalism’s decline.

The world’s reality can’t be kept forever secret,

Because the ‘truth is always concrete’.

My eyes have begun drooping

And my head stooping.

So I’ll rap up this rhyme,

As it’s almost time,

To face another day,

Of slow bodily decay.

This poem’s received no revision,

So save your derision.

I think I’ve enough said,

So now I’m off to bed.