Europa Poets' Gazette No. 71, March 2010

It’s March again and time marches. There is a gene that retards growth in humans. People with this disease stay young, except that some parts of their bodies are not in tune and the person dies in consequence. Science, being able to control the gene (as seen by me on TV as a documentary) will make us all live for a thousand years, or more. There is no reason why we should not, as the cells in the body regenerate regularly anyway and only a fault in the genes makes us grow old and die. Most birds, for example, don’t age. They just die. Never mind.
Next month is the beginning of our seventh year of publication. We’ve published a hundred local people with poetic aspirations. I’ve tried to put the gazette onto a Google Blog blogger "Europa Poets’ Gazette" and have partly succeeded. Last time I looked it wouldn’t put No. 70 up but it did connect Joe Lake with a slimming company in England. I wonder if they know that I’m fat. Maybe not. I’ve tried Facebook but it keeps asking me for different passwords and secret handshakes. I’ve nearly given up. Once, an email came from Facebook asking who the hell am I to try to communicate with her. There is always a percentage of loonies on the internet and one must be young and naive to be able to put up with the hackers and the general infectors of the mind.
My garden is doing fine. I’ve discovered the secret ingredient to growing vegetables: Cow poo. It worked wonders for the people in the old country. They included their own poo. It still works better than all the artificial fertilisers. I mix it with pottingmix and up come the plants as if someone were pushing them from beneath the earth.
As you can see next door, I’m experimenting with nonsense verse. It’s marvellous. Someone said the other day about my Sonnet’s 2009, that they didn’t make sense. Maybe. But nonsense verse alleviates that problem because it all makes sense not to make sense. It’s like music with no words.

Ontology
(The nature of Being)
Think of the perfect and then think of God,
The all creating, all omniscient entity
Who has designed the world and our lot
Where all is perfect in this sanctity.
If God were evolution, He’d be less
Than great within a sceptic's sordid scheme,
So He must be much more than we can guess.
He must be more, much more than what it seems.
To prove the essence of this Being,
God is better than cannot be assumed,
A perfect force, of ever watchful seeing,
This God could be no accident presumed.
God is substance striving for perfection
A determined Being’s clear reflection.
© Joe Lake
From Philosophical Sonnets 2010
The Bungledoo
I tell you of the Bungledoo
Who owned the big brown lands
Where all the little children do
What no one understands.
The Bungledoo knew Bringaling
The yellow Gunglefoo
Who ate brown land as binngeling
Avoiding all that doo.
But all the children thought it fair
That Dinglebaggle dried
And so could float right through the air
Until you knew, he lied.
The Bungledoo who thought aloud
That bringbet could be done
As Dinglebaggle was a fraud,
As he shouted from a gun.
He stood his ground and spat in vain
At Dooroog’s flying croc
And thought that he could win the blaim,
Deciding to take stock.
But what he didn’t know, the spool,
Was that the king could fly
And so they all swarm in the school
To croak a lullaby.
I tell you of the Bungledoo
Who owned the big brown lands
Where all the little children do
What no one understands.
© Joe Lake
From Musical (Nonsense) Verse 2010