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Jingles of
Christmas Future

a Poem by Stefan Lewis-Fish
(30th December 1998)

Chairman Fish's

Big

Red

Book

Miller chased his elusive chord,

I'm tuning in to the thoughts of a muse,

Waiting for the jingles of Christmas.

Writing to the order of compulsion,

Wanting the story unwritten,

The spectral script of future fame,

To dazzle the unformed crowd.

It was Christmas Eve in the Wordhouse,

The vocabulary cupboard was bare,

For even today's tired old clichés,

Were once struggling wisps in the air.

Ah, finally, I think I'm cruising,

But, what's that word for... Oh right,

Yes! The story's emerging,

Still, the details are boring and trite.

It was Christmas Day in the Wordhouse.

No thoughts... Buddha might've approved,

In the zen rituals of celebration,

Hollow platitudes dancing in, sincerely.

It was Boxing Day in the Wordhouse,

Rooms become filled with vacuous pause,

Illusions project from the idiot box,

Whilst, I bathe in my fantasy's sunshine.

Continuing with rhythmic word strings,

No rhymes releasing meanings,

Gone the drones of predictable words,

Tying strings round consciousness present.

Nightmarish Dickensian whispers,

Create their own revelations,

As the last few hours of ninety eight,

Presage nineteen ninety and nine.

Months of chequebook confusion,

Hide the promise of the future,

Which scripts the unwritten millennium

When, we'll be back, down to nought, and square one.