‘Poo-tee weet!’
– The whistler –
While taking a stroll, up to the dole
On a seaside afternoon fair
I pace the space, with haste, not grace
And place a tune on the air
The notes I legato, with too much vibrato
Are spontaneous harmonies plucked
From an infinite array, of pitches to play
And a selection of tones, blown and sucked
‘Wee widdely wee wee, poo-tee weet’ (whistled proudly)
If I walk a straight line, the pitch cannot climb
My feet and the metre, may stagger or stray
But if I miss a beat, or we meet in the street
I’ve a bitch of a pitch, if you get in my way
Whatever the path, my tune shows the maths
Of the arcs I am taking, around people today
And this oral pursuit, lets the route, play the flute
In my constant harmonic display
‘Wee widdely wee wee, poo-tee weet’
(A whistling solo frenzy which starts with a ‘hey mate’ whistle and ends with a wolf whistle)
‘Wee widdely wee wee, poo-tee weet’
It makes me feel like I’m happier…
…Than other people…
‘Wee widdely wee wee, poo-tee weet’
…Does whistling
‘Wee widdely wee wee, poo-tee weet’
A smug ‘hello’, back to a sunny day
Whatever day it is today
(Blinko stomps up some steps, enters a building and grudgingly climbs countless flights of stairs)
Uppity, umpah, umpah, umpah, umpah, umpah, uppity me
Uppity, umpah, umpah, umpah, umpah, umpah, uppity me
The melody survives, until I arrive
And enter through the front door
Past privates, of the security guard
And my brain, it works no more
See, it’s a trick, to be thick, or pretend to be sick
To the big lady, who must be fed
A ‘Wee widdely wee wee, poo-tee weet’
But quietly, in my head
(The umpah-umpah sound of a tuba lingers, as Blinko takes a seat and mumbles to himself)
– Wait for weight –
The speed of time, is one second per second
But that’s if your spacetime is flat
It goes much slower, close to a massive body
But I’ve no time to think about that
(click)
(He anticipates the same question his opponent asks him every fortnight. His internal chant synchronises with each click she makes on the keyboard)
Last two weeks, in the
Last two weeks, in the
Last two weeks, in the world (click)
Last two weeks, in the
Last two weeks, in the
(Miss Lomass asks)
In the last two weeks… done any work? (click)
No
(She clicks once more, sighs, and swings her chair around to face him)
So Raymond…
…Please, call me Blinko
Sir, it is your scope
Widen it, and you will find
It will give you, more hope
Schooled in ‘basic’ sciences (reading)
Oh, and art, well, that’s a start
Technical skills? Experience?
Had a-n-y… experience…. (leaning forward)
What, of the heart? (to himself)
Biology? You? Me? (murmured)
Ah, just some ‘chemistry’ (aloud)
(Blinko imagines the sound of two fading heartbeats going out of sync, as he leans forward to impart some muttered advice)
– War of three kingdoms –
Biologists think they are biochemists
Biochemists think they are physical chemists
Physical chemists think they are physicists
And physicists think they are gods
G….
God thinks he’s a bright mathematician
But with all this uncertainty
Quickly, he learns that he
Needs to be a statistician
‘You’ may need...
…Cos, you can wave goodbye, to your functions (interrupting)
In this eternally collapsing circus
Where physics without thought, is chemistry
And maths, is physics without purpose
… You really, really, ought to concentrate more
Look, just please sign there (pushing a form in front of him)
And keep applying for three jobs per month
To continue receiving your welfare
Work done…
…to date, ain’t great, so I can’t wait
To give you some assistance
No thanks, I’m fine
And ‘work done’, is simply… force!
Multiplied by distance
Blinko? You don’t care?
What the hell
Your welfare….
…Farewell!
(He flashes a token smile and leaves. A loud door slam echoes down the stairwell, as he descends the building, counting aloud)
Steps 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
Turn 2 3 4
Door 2 3 4
Steps 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
Turn 2
Steps 2
Back door. Go!
– The great skedaddle –
(A quick 8-bar cartoon tune accompanies, as Blinko legs it straight back down the hill. It slows to a walking pace as he exits a side street, and zig-zags through a children’s marching band)
Left. Left
I had a good home, and I left
(The sound of paint being sprayed is terminated by a flashbang. He stoops and squints to read, as the message drips to the ground)
“There is no Planet B”
So, why deface this one, with graffiti?
(The approaching skirmish of marching children, sing a clapping song to military snare drums and whistles)
Nature and nurture had a fight (clap)
Each one said that each was right (clap, clap)
Each one said that each was wrong (clap, clap, clap)
And no one knows what’s going on (clap, clap, clap, clap)
(Blinko mulls over their words aloud)
“There’s no Planet B?”
And “no one knows what’s going on”
Oh, ‘precious’, defunct generation (under his breath, mockingly)
Damn your ‘lucky’ stars, be gone!
‘Poo-tee weet…’
(Greenflash! Blinko ducks to hide his eyes from incoming fireworks. Bangers and screamers, drown his whistle under what sounds like a flurry of crackling daytime shooting stars)
Help me! (a child yells)
The day… breeee
(Blinko turns to catch a glimpse of metallic shrapnel launching a fine red mist from a tiny, solitary, still full, marching boot)
You there! You! You don’t care?
(He flinches, but stays focused on the path ahead)
I care… (admittedly)
…That, I don’t care (to himself)
(He slips down a dark, quiet, narrow alleyway. Its deep blue underwater hue helps to echo his escaping muttered thoughts)
“No Planet B. What’s going on?”
“No Planet B. What’s going on?”
(His nervous chant gets louder as he approaches the light at the end of the tunnel)
A damn-aged youth, with ideas ‘too’ strong
Are they learned or instinctive? There, all along?
If inherited, we must ‘all’, be just ‘born wrong’
But…
If such thoughts, are taught, by someone
Then, this folly…
Deserves, a jolly…
Song!
(He hails the Sun as the sound of the marching band nears again. Blinko scurries home, opens the gate, goes down the steps, then enters, slams and locks the door. Before leaning against it, panting)