swayed to the sounds of the City,
chased his elusive chord,
tuning in to the thoughts of a muse,
for the jingles of Christmas.
to the order of compulsion,
the story unwritten,
spectral script of future fame,
dazzle the unformed crowd.
was Christmas Eve in the Wordhouse,
vocabulary cupboard was bare,
even today's tired old clichés,
once struggling wisps in the air.
finally, I think I'm cruising,
what's that word for... Oh right,
The story's emerging,
the details are boring and trite.
was Christmas Day in the Wordhouse.
the zen rituals of celebration,
platitudes dancing in, sincerely.
was Boxing Day in the Wordhouse,
become filled with vacuous pause,
project from the idiot box,
I bathe in my fantasy's sunshine.
with rhythmic word strings,
rhymes releasing meanings,
the drones of predictable words,
strings round consciousness present.
Nightmarish Dickensian whispers,
their own revelations,
the last few hours of ninety eight,
nineteen ninety and nine.
of chequebook confusion,
the promise of the future,
scripts the unwritten millennium
we'll be back, down to nought, and square one.
(30 December 1998)