Ignorant

I'm ignorant, I'm ignorant, I don't have all the facts
I'm ignorant, I'm ignorant, there are points of view I lack
I'm ignorant, I'm ignorant, but I'm trying to pick up the slack
'Cause I'm ignorance, and that ignorance, is being but under attack

There are so many things that I know I don't know
And I have to say that sometimes it really does show
That to stay ignorant is a common status quo
A place I have to try hard not to go

See, I don't know much about many countries
If there is any interaction between birds and bees
Why it is that mornings cause so much pain (say what?)
Or how to stop a runaway train of thought

I just about know how to tie a bow tie
But not what to do if I see a baby cry
Why it is politics causes such heated debate
Or why some people so quickly turn to hate

So, here's something I really don't know to be true
Which is really, just who on earth are you?
Your religion, your faith, or your philosophy
If you consider sleep saviour or monstrosity

Like so many others, you are the sum of many parts
Adding up to give the world an impression to impart
In this world where we are so quick to blame strangers
We don't often stop to think of the dangers

I've seen so much recent hate, it's startlingly common
Insulting and scapegoating in manners ad hominem
I can't argue against, because I don't know enough to represent
All I ask is that you too realise you are ignorant.

Potential

In art, no one has a blank canvas.

...

At the start of all art, you have to be reverential
Because at heart every start is purely potential
We could unfold any world with that blank page
Because the world is whirled onto every stage

So why then, why? Do we have styles and trends
Because my oh my, don't you even pretend
That you don't have topics and tropes that you prefer
Have themes and schemes you always wish to infer

See the blank page is blank. That much is true.
But let me be frank while seeking no thank you
As the artist we must be incredibly stained
As someone who's the sum of how we've trained

Even the creative take comfort in what they make
Don't sink in to thinking this makes you a fake
Don't infer it's a sin to prefer one style or thing
Else you'd likely never ever make anything

When given the blank canvas. You must be aware
How your past steers you to the art hidden there
And other pasts would steer you in other ways
With no past you'd be staring at blank canvas for days

But, here's the twist, in case you missed it (and you care)
The more empty your mind's canvas, the more you find there

Things that whirr

To say I'm an old school cur is a rule of thumb,
But I love things that whirr, and things that hum.
A machine with too many gears and too many parts,
Is something I revere in my heart of hearts.

It's not at all suspect, in fact it's quite clear
When that thing there hits this thing here
One part goes clonk so that another goes clink
Which leads to a bonk so I don't have to think.

Machines these days are way too small,
How to know if they work at all?
If it erks 'n' jerks on a molecular scale,
With what size hammer do I smash it when it fails?

How am I to be a handy type of dandy man,
With objects that fi in the palm of my hand?
I love to grind, to tinker and to strive,
But this machine thinks and it's not even alive!

So back to the old school, with rust dust and levers
I remain with no shame the most ardent reverer
Down with the scientific witchery of present day
Who do modern engineers think they are anyway?

Neon ghosts.

No one watches tv anymore. We wouldn't dare.
We've got real life if we want our scare
We tell stories and tales of days gone by
Of the lost generation, of those on standby

It used to be, we would stare long into screens
It would give us laughter. It would give us screams
We'd plug ourselves in at the start of today
Put on our boots-up, and then press play

The key was never to acknowledge, of even admit
You'd lost days to a being, forced to commit
But what did that being do, with it's extra hours
What was the reach and source of its powers?

We tried to plug it up, but that made it worse
It would screeach and wail, if put in reverse
So we let it go on, stealing our time
Until we had none left to give of our prime

That was them, the standby generation
Who watched it happen without hesitation
They're gone forever, each boy woman and man
But their neon ghosts still haunt our land