WriterJohnB
Member
Since inane poems seem to be appearing lately:
I Hate Dimension it, but. . .
By John Bushore
A test pilot am I, and I flew an invention,
straight through a black hole, to the fifth of dimensions.
It’s a space-time awry, full of wide-awake dreams,
where if something looks right, then it’s not as it seems.
We have four sorts of rights but no wrong and no left.
You can walk north and south, but go backward for west.
We’ve not got a down here, but we’ve eight ways of up.
You can pour from a straw but not spill from a cup.
You can never go there, for there’s only a here.
Yet we’ve plenty of distance, but not any near.
And we’ve gravity here but, remember, no down,
so if you let go. . ., why, you fall all around!
We’ve plenty of numbers, but not any primes,
and square roots are circles, but not all of the time.
Our equations are balanced, as long as they rhyme.
Five added to nine often equals sublime.
Archimedes be damned, levers never work here -
and nothing but flattery rotates a gear.
We’ve insides and outsides, but no spheres at all,
so we play with toruses rather than balls.
Clocks always run sideways - time’s never an issue.
You can never be late, if you take your watch with you.
We’ve a short, not a long, and no minutes or hours,
so high noon can be twelve inches short and quite sour.
We’ve a glut of illogic, insanity’s rife.
We have no common sense, but yet stupid comes twice.
And though everything’s average, we’ve got smart but no dumb.
And you can’t come to visit, there’s no to, only from.
And since one is a prime, you cannot be alone,
so no one’s here with me, and she’s sharing my home.
Where ice cubes are liquid, soft scents waft to our ears;
we float listening to roses, while chewing warm beer.
Published in The Fifth Dimension, Aug 2005
I Hate Dimension it, but. . .
By John Bushore
A test pilot am I, and I flew an invention,
straight through a black hole, to the fifth of dimensions.
It’s a space-time awry, full of wide-awake dreams,
where if something looks right, then it’s not as it seems.
We have four sorts of rights but no wrong and no left.
You can walk north and south, but go backward for west.
We’ve not got a down here, but we’ve eight ways of up.
You can pour from a straw but not spill from a cup.
You can never go there, for there’s only a here.
Yet we’ve plenty of distance, but not any near.
And we’ve gravity here but, remember, no down,
so if you let go. . ., why, you fall all around!
We’ve plenty of numbers, but not any primes,
and square roots are circles, but not all of the time.
Our equations are balanced, as long as they rhyme.
Five added to nine often equals sublime.
Archimedes be damned, levers never work here -
and nothing but flattery rotates a gear.
We’ve insides and outsides, but no spheres at all,
so we play with toruses rather than balls.
Clocks always run sideways - time’s never an issue.
You can never be late, if you take your watch with you.
We’ve a short, not a long, and no minutes or hours,
so high noon can be twelve inches short and quite sour.
We’ve a glut of illogic, insanity’s rife.
We have no common sense, but yet stupid comes twice.
And though everything’s average, we’ve got smart but no dumb.
And you can’t come to visit, there’s no to, only from.
And since one is a prime, you cannot be alone,
so no one’s here with me, and she’s sharing my home.
Where ice cubes are liquid, soft scents waft to our ears;
we float listening to roses, while chewing warm beer.
Published in The Fifth Dimension, Aug 2005
