Mammoth Astrogation.(The Steampunk Journals) . Poem by Alistair Plint

Babbage-Engine-Entry 1001
Cat-Lap


Tick tock, tickety tock
it's no skilamalink
steam be bellowing
over our chronological clock
Awaiting hands
of copper fame
to reside at six
and twelve, again
Let lubricants
fuel gears, grinding cogs
accross the blind face
of alternative history's grace
Steam for brew
beans to grind
with enthusimuzzy, the barrister
furnishing the perfect trend
Ace-high
-a new aroma
-a fresh new blend


Babbage-Engine-Entry 1002
Damfino


Tick tock, tickety tock
Anthracite burning below
pipes on brass-cocks
Pumping water
through the shrine
warming to boil
precipitation prime
Single-sided-valves
syphon steam
from the engine's hull
images synchronised
to a fireless hell
When the aeronaught
lifts the berth to propell
the Bloater's basket shell


Babbage-Engine-Entry 1003
Mad as hops


Tick tock, tickety tock
The buor astrogator's turn
she's mounted on the
copper-urn
with gigantic
cupid's kettle drums
Suspenders peak
from her leather-corsett
The angelic voice, cuts a swell
sharing
aria on strings
whilst mist rises from the
welded faucet-rings
Under the floor a viola sings
bringing with it
bright colours, to adore
with lightning-light
from her Edison's glass
She investigates his
jewellery bright;
through her
monocle of shiny brass
Then she proudly sighs
in final
-grateful
-orgasmic
flutter-byes


Babbage-Engine-Entry 1004
Chuckaboo


Tick tock, tickety tock
Townsfolk mafficking
at the clock
with giggles and skittles
to sample
goblets, mugs, and cups
poured from the
barrister's newest
copper-Arbuckle-pots
Pirates in leather
and satin sheer
arived on ships
Philieas Fog had steered
All and sundry stood
be feared;
dash my wig
they'd taken voyage
in just
eight days of toyage


Babbage-Engine-Entry 1005
Church-bell


Tick tock, tickety tock
The candy can began
with every bit 'o jam
the duchess is wearing
her royal frock
we're building a revolution
without the pop
In with the metal, out with the plastic
in with the charming years of olde
from the stories, we've been told
Adorning top-hat, gas-pipes,
waistcoat, and tails
The prince
a rather bricky man, invented
The-Poem-Metric-Meter
(all rather afternoonified)
an analytical engine of
wide advance, it chomps on
words, grammar, alliteration
similies, methaphores
and personification
With wires, guages
and electro-steam soar
calculating sums of engineered truth
evidence on brass beaded abacus roots
the perfect word-brews
to award a trophy
for the winning few
who've taken the egg
and punked the english language
To be knighted, poetic esquire
with a giggle-mug
using swords and holy water
at a clock unveiling banquet
with bit 'o jams
kings, and lords
tot hunting on the crawl
All butter upon bacon



-x-


There shall be no collie shangles, it makes a stuffed bird laugh!