An LENR fan he was not
Many a time he went way over the top
Oh how he loved to stir the pot
Undetered by a ban, he came back a new man
We shall see if it lasts, but doubtful I am
He has the will to withstand the temptation
There once was a man in a warehouse
Who made a megawatt space heater
Out of faucets and fans and pumps and pipes
And nickel and platinum and glue.
He made all the measurements himself each day
so that the independent expert wouldn't need to.
There once was a wizard called Ross,
Whose reward was the blogs made him Boss.
With help from some Profs,
and real-estate Toffs,
His parting will seem a great Loss.
The art of cold fusion
Is not an illusion
Though some would say 'it's all crap!
To practice the craft
Might seem somewhat daft
And springs the reputational trap
But such is its lure
That even the pure
Want LENR put on the map
The truth is, of course
That this energy source
Puts the skeptics all in a flap
At times it's a war
Who can insult more?
Or deliver the hardest slap?
But I just don't care
Tho I sometimes despair
My patience will suddenly snap
So I burn tmidnight oil
And palladium foil
All I need is a hydrogen tap
To make this complete
Would be rather sweet
I will close the energy gap.
You missed your calling Alan. That was good. Real good actually.
Or in a more 'modern' style.
BROKEN SYMMETRY, ANOMALOUS HEAT.
Tachyons, smelling of mercury and dust, twist and shimmer in the glittering darkness, moving from then to now.
Homeless neutrinos whine, frolicking like puppies in corners of the vacuum chessboard, each looking for a charm.
Somewhere a bass rumble, echo of a star giving birth.
Nothingness shakes and mutters, sliced and pierced by magnetism's sword into discrete slivers of time.
They rattle and bang, each sliding cold as ice into an electrons heart, labelled with a name but nameless.
Phonons scutter like rabbits, each looking for a hole to hide in, as tormented nuclei glide past like ships.
Their unlit portholes reflect distant unknowable fires as broken particles swivel, compass-like, toward them.
A man in a white coat shakes his head. Nothing to see here, let's move along.
The Experimenter
The dark carpets stained with deliquescent dirt,
indelible fusty runes on delapidated drapes,
there, proximate and solitary, the dancer dies.
A pane of light, one corner crazed as baby blobs of spilt mercury,
reveals crepescent azure sky.
Without, the secret sleeps in curious fitful rest. Dis-ease a
a much misunderstood sillhouette against the grasping talons
of birds winged with freight of unknown loves and distant loss.
On his own website, dwells a long-haired crazy
Banished forever, the reasons are hazy
Always writes a lot, but as an editor is lazy
Fake-Mats once accused him of enjoying IH's white gravy.
But what a shining animal is man,
Who knows, when pain subsides, that is not that,
For worse than that must follow—yet can write
Music, can laugh, play tennis, even plan.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
The study of LENR
Is criticised near and far
But this difficult field
May - even yet - yield
A cut-price star in a jar.
Scatological, hysterical,
They're almost ecumenical!
Yet never ask to see the goods,
Nor spy the trees within the woods,
No time for that. We'll save the world,
And spin the money with our flags unfurled!
I wish I was a lecturer,
At a university,
All that free time to post on the net,
In term time too - apparently.
It's almost like a second job,
Allegedly done for no cash,
It's the trademark of a fanatic,
Or a shill for British Gas!
Do his bosses know his post-count?
His last class pushed to the brink,
Nine grand of debt per year for them,
To be told what to think.
Those idiots should realise,
He'd do it all for free,
Just don't say he's "unbalanced",
Or tell the faculty.
In a case of palace intrigue,
The great dictator once held the floor,
Till he abdicated to an upstart young princeling,
Who has gone and styled himself 'Abd-Mi Nor'.
That's because they both love North Korea,
A place where you can get shit done,
When there's no pesky moderating voices,
If you've risen to be favourite son.
I guess the doxxings have all been forgiven,
And you are "clearly a pseudoskeptic" no more,
All His edicts and decrees have been issued,
So umpteen more thousand words will soon pour...
...Dear Leader has wrote more than Stalin and Mao!
Excluding their letters, that's certainly true,
You can even include books by Gaddafi and Duce;
All ego-less fools - when compared to you.
But I've noticed your thousand-year empire,
Seemed at one point, to be lacking some pride:
When your regime's patronage network corrupted,
Into a Floridan summer-holiday funding drive.
I think that's quite enough personal attacks. On anybody 
Bah, pesky moderating voices! Abd is secretly thrilled with his ode, I promise.
But I guess my final work will have to go unfinished:
"Swanning around central Europe and Asia,
With increasingly odd & paranoid behaviour,
