The Web Poetry Corner
DreamMachineThe Web Poetry Corner is a Dream Machine Site
The Dream Machine --- The Imagination of the World Wide Web

The Web Poetry Corner

Bazil Figura


Kings Lynn, England, UK

Home Authors Alphabetically Authors Date Submitted Authors Country Submission Rules Feedback

If you have comments or suggestions for Bazil Figura, you can contact this author at: (Bazil Figura)

Find a book store near you, no matter where you are located in the U.S.A.!


...the best independent ISP in the Twin Cities

Gypsy's Photo Gallery



Bazil Figura

Donít talk to me of man and gun,
How heroes stand and cowardís run,
Donít talk to me of bombs that thud,
When hill and vale runs red with blood,
Donít talk to me of lands and rights,
When bargaining down rifle sights,
Donít talk to me of cannons roar,
When to me they all mean war.

Donít talk to me of man and gold,
When people starve both young and old,
Donít talk to me of planes and cars,
When people sleep beneath the stars,
Donít talk to me of styles of hair,
When children walk with feet so bare,
Donít talk to me of who shall lead,
When to me they all mean greed,

Donít talk to me of speed and haste,
When industry spills toxic waste,
Donít talk to me of how luck is dealt,
When polar caps begin to melt,
Donít talk to me of pop star bands,
When people speak by using their hands,
Donít talk to me of drugs you buy,
When to me it means someone will die,

Donít talk to me of stocks and shares
When one mistake can cost careers
Donít talk to me of merchandise
When children labour for a bowl of rice
Donít talk to me of independence rule
When ethnic cleansing is unjust and cruel
Donít talk to me of governments that meet
When babies are left to die in the street

But talk to me of family love,
Of your lord god and heaven above,
And talk to me of how to trust,
The confidence to share oneís crust,
And talk to me of peace on land,
With fellow man hand in hand,
And talk to me of how to cope,
When to me it all means hope.



Bazil Figura

I dream of Wembley arena or the Rose Bowl USA,
Of thousands of people who pay to come and hear me play,
Before me sit my peers Clapton, Dylan even Quo,
As these fingers do the talking the cash begins to flow,
And as I take this instrument of polished wood and string,
The only problem is, I canít play the bloody thing,
When I go like this or even go like that,
Something seems to tell me it sounds a little flat,
410 lessons Iíve had and Iím now really really wishing,
That the Police soon find my music teacher since he mysteriously went missing,
I been through music teachers like Mata Hari through MI 5,
There not many left in the phone book, in fact thereís not many left alive,
I practice and I practice and give all I have to give,
Most of them run away or lose the will to live,
Like all rock and rollers I smoke a little pot,
But when it comes to playing cords my fingers get in a knot,
I try so hard but still I find itís a mystery to me,
Cos only cords that I can play are ĎCí ĎRí ĎAí and ĎPí
Iíve tried to live the fast life, be moody and be mean,
But Iíd be the only pop star that ODíed on Oveltine,
Iíve tried going clubbing until the early hours,
Iíve even rubbed shoulders with all the mega stars,
Thereís Ester Ranson and Thora Herd but the oneís who are really mad,
I remember the night I went out on the town with the chimps from the Typhoo ad,
I try to play folky stuff, even blues to hit the fame,
But no matter what it is and how itís played it still all sounds the same,
Iíve tried sharps; Iíve tried flats and even the odd treble clef,
But it doesnít help in the music world if you happen to be tone deaf,
And who knows one day my genius, a talent scout may find,
But then the words ĎPigsí and ĎFlyí spring readily to mind,
So Iíll keep on strumming loudly and jive like this and that,
Even though my guitar sounds like a strangled cat!

Elvis is dead


Bazil Figura

Elvis is dead, he is no more,
So donít hold your breath heís not coming through the door,
In trailer parks throughout the US of A,
Are millions of people, who donít think that way
Called Billy Jo or Mary Beth,
Who refuse to believe in Elvisís death,
But thousands of saddoís still want to ignore,
The truth thatís heís buried six feet in the floor,
Heís not incognito or in disguise,
Or living up a mountain learning to be wise,
Heís not the man you sat next to on the bus,
So donít get excited or make any fuss,
Heís not living with aliens in outer space,
Or had plastic surgery to change his face,
Heís not collecting trolleys or empting bins,
He just died of over eating for his mortal sins,
The burger grease that hid the pain,
Blocked every artery and swollen vein,
Itís only the good and the young that dies,
But the fat die younger eating burgers and fries,
His star spangled girdle that held back the lard,
Lays stretched and worn out because it worked so hard,
Heís gone for good; so donít hope to see,
The Elvis comeback Ďliveí on TV,
To believe heís alive and his arteries didnít harden,
Is like excepting fairies live at the bottom of the garden,
So get over it, move on, thereís no Ďifí or Ďbutí,
Heís in a hole in the ground, in a box thatís nailed shut,
So ignore reality and truth if you must,
Heís just a pile of old bones and a whole heap of dust,
Reality hits hard but you have to come to terms,
The king of rock and roll has been eaten by worms.

Crash test dummies


Bazil Figura

They tie me up, they rope me down,
They drop me from a height,
They use me and abuse me,
I never put up a fight,

Iím set on fire; Iím thrown down stairs,
Iím buried in tons of rubble,
They use me and abuse me,
However, Iím never any trouble,

Because I have no expression,
And polymers are my skin,
Does not mean I have no soul,
And I should never win,

I have never shed a tear,
As the discomfort I try to smoother,
As my head shoots off in one direction,
And my arse goes in another,

I have but small ambitions,
That at the end of a working day,
I dream I still have my arms and legs,
And my head is on the right way,

But I do what I do for the nation,
For through me things are made the right way,
It takes bravery, courage and devotion,
For a job you die in every day,

Scientists and engineers make things safe,
As they read the data that confirms,
I might be a crash test dummy,
But Iím a contradiction in terms,



Bazil Figura

Beep, the noise that greets you as walk in the door,
Beep, the sound that echoís round the superstore,
Beep, the rows of tills to infinity extend,
Beep, the hustle and bustle would sent me round the bend,
Beep, the machines own language rhythmic and the same,
Beep, its like living inside a computer game,
Beep, like alien invaders landing on our rock,
Beep, maybe we should communicate like Captain Kirk or Spock,
Beep, the machines are manned by smiling cheerful folk,
Beep, but as I stand in line I fail to see the joke,
Beep, people queue around me in silence and distain,
Beep, the faces show frustration and of tortured pain,
Beep, the checkout clearly marked ten or less items tells,
Beep, of things to be purchased not number of brain cells,
Beep, an attack with a rough pineapple is what Iíd love to mount,
Beep, on the rear end of a shopper who clearly cannot count,
Beep, the hands of operators, blurred as they go by,
Beep, as they pick things up to show the magic eye,
Beep, the little windows that shoot a beam of light,
Beep, the flash of red or green to say youíve got it right,
Beep, go cakes, buns, bread and strawberry jam,
Beep, closely followed by sausages and smoked ham,
Beep, the tins of process peas and cans of fizzy drink,
Beep, the bar code reader reads faster than a blink,
Beep, Iím never lucky or you just might call it fate,
Beep, I never find a trolley that runs exactly straight,
Beep, the people struggle to load the conveyer belt,
Beep, as children smash the eggs and ice cream starts to melt,
Beep, architects created space for us to roam around,
Beep, but kids believe and act as if thereí in a big playground,
Beep, the answer to the question when patience finally is cracked,
Beep, is why mothers bring their children to supermarkets to get smacked,
Beep, but the only time thereís wailing and the panic goes quite deep,
Is when the checkout finally refuses to go ___Beep!

Garden Shed


Bazil Figura

That bastion of manliness, that fortress made of wood,
When men retreat to for solitude more often if we could,
As refugees in search of peace, we leave all hassle and move,
And seek solace in that sacred place, that womb of tongue and grove,
When life resembles a storm beneath a dark and raging cloud,
Mainly due to the wifeís volume control when itís frequently stuck on loud,
For once, the door is firmly closed by the sound of a falling latch,
Thus begins a state of utopia that no professional therapy can match,
For gardening or model making or the delights of producing home brew,
The advantages of a garden shed, the average woman just hasnít got a clue,
There are shelves on which to stack things and hooks from which to hang,
There are selections of saws to cut with and hammers for to bang
With jam jars neatly labelled and filled with screws, nails,
The method by which you find things is understood only by males,
Most have a radio to listen too; some have a kettle for tea,
And occasionally a few have a comfy chair in front of a small TV,
We potter around doing gardening and fixing things when they break,
And it doesnít matter if we swear and curse should a mistake we make,
For inside our citadel of shiplap guarded by creosote and felt,
Weíre protected from a world of woes and the hand life has dealt,
For this green and pleasant land was created for you and me,
For without our garden sheds life would hold reason to be,
So although itís typically English and typically misunderstood,
The mysteries that lay within are a force for decency and good,



Bazil Figura

Swimming round the goldfish bowl youíd think is a bit of a bore,
There arenít any windows and there isnít any door,
There arenít any walls and there isnít any floor,
Swimming round the goldfish bowl youíd think is a bit of a bore,

Swimming round the goldfish bowl people stand and stare,
I see their mouths a - moving but I alas can not hear,
But as I can speak neither I really do not care,
Swimming round the goldfish bowl people stand and stare,

Swimming round the goldfish bowl is all that can be done,
I donít get to meet many people and I donít get to have much fun,
I have no arms to clap with and have no legs to run,
Swimming round the goldfish bowl is all that can be done,

Swimming round the goldfish bowl is to me an utter delight,
Its clockwise in the morning then the opposite at night,
Up and down, fast and slow, left and to the right,
Swimming round the goldfish bowl is to me an utter delight,

Swimming round the goldfish bowl is new to me each day,
I have an ten second memory, I was made that way,
So what I see and what I do never ever stay,
Swimming round the goldfish bowl is new to me each day,



Bazil Figura

I lay alone inside my room,
I sob myself to sleep,
I am alone in this world now,
I have no relationship deep,
No woman to share my breakfast,
No woman to share my bed,
No woman to share my life with,
No woman that I can wed,
So little interest do they show in me,
So little explanation as to why,
So little time to put things right,
So little wonder I cry.