Each strait’ning stitch of thought

The narrative of present time speaks woe of mind so constant in the framing grip of Mainstream’s and the common man’s ability to slip into pernicious discourse readily:

Some folks are most determined to rely on superstition and see sinister conspiracy in every exposition. Some people are so ego-driven even declarations of the bleedin’ obvious are put to competition. And some are so persuaded by a temporary, petty detail as to be distracted from the relevancies, real and active, all reflected in the bigger picture as connected. Some have become so much enthralled with notions of utopia, they really need an altogether, very separate world. And others isolate themselves as though the insulation guarantees to hold at bay the latest crazy, human fashion. But others, still, let go objective reason and embrace their fear by hating with gratuitous and undiscerning passion; they’ll lazily call everything and anyone ‘the same’ to justify ad hominem and blur informed and unenlightened blame. Some, yet, would rather spend their time intent on dredging well-known hist’ry scraped from barrels of old rhetoric – in immature one-upmanship – than take a risk on Myst’ry with imaginative courage.

Each strait’ning stitch of thought is tragic nourishment to fraying, tired fabric, worn as agents’ habit, causing independent thought to suffer its decline and hinder level-headedness and open heart to tell another story that most surely waits impatient for its once upon a time…

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Brace yourself, Britannia

My mission’ry position is
Compassionate conservatism
Lo, my little citizens! I come to
Save you from yourselves with
Morals from an ancient wealth –
By far the cheapest of elitist guff
I’ve ever plied but then, you know:
I am a very rudiment’ry kind of guy.
I am a monocausal polyglot – one
In; one out – a multi-spinning tome
I’ve got, imposing with my pointy
Thumb a myriad of hoarded ohms
All leading to my Tory home where
What is good for you is of a certain
Better known.

My children, you have
Come a cropper, what with the
Equality and sharing, caring tedium
That stalks my Big Society. I came
In haste to fix you good and proper
– love a quickie, me – you need to
Learn to love the shortcut model of
The Family. It’s quite an art but this
Hardworking righteous part is up for
You and so, we self-selected few, in
Scorn-laced pity’s duty hewn, most
Urgent with desire to collect, will see
To you, Britannia, brace yourself: your
Welfare will be keenly felt, my pet.

Weasels

Half a ton of faecal advice
Half a ton of Sméagol
That’s the way the government goes
Outcrop of weasels

Fast and fat the parasites grow
Addicts love the treacle
That’s the way the hosts are betrayed
Blank cheque for weevils

In and out Conservatives rush
Sleight-of-hand and bluster
That’s the way the blue army goes
Tricks of a hustler

All along the concubine road
Turncoats lie spread-eagled
That’s the way the Lib Demmers go
Pimped and enfeebled

Here and there a ‘socialist’ squeaks
Scared of its own shadow
That’s the way the half-hearted play
Pop! goes an M. O.

Round and down the plug hole we go
Alice found a needle
That’s the way the money goes
Drained from the People

Everything the idiots bring
Is tainted, spun and crafted
That’s the way the weasels prey
Pop! we are shafted.

Britain-Under-Siege

In Britain-Under-Siege, the cocky Board of
Phallusy accepts no liability – Austerity is
For the poor who must get less for more
And Forward Guidance laughs as Moar
Makes room for plenty when delinquents
Rule by farce – yes, less is emptiness since
Money lost its common touch to fools who
Cannot tell an elbow from an arse and all
The lessons learned are hindsight’s panic,
Turned by tools to profit from their
Orchestrated damage…

High on too much power, scrumping from
The Magic Money Tree, the Vulgar Class
Are drunk in charge with liquid opportunity.
The imbeciles are at the wheel and all in it
Together, on a beano, Hell for leather bound
While those in tow are battered by temerity
And pulped – oh, yes: the modern Libertarian
Takes liberties by gulp

Valentine

True love is stronger than a thousand deaths; for, though one die a thousand times, a single love may yet perpetuate itself past every death from birth to birth, growing and culminating in intensity and might.

Anna (Bonus) Kingsford, Clothed With The Sun

We are not led by donkeys: we’re driven by prats

I don’t want this coalition of arrogant, ignorant bozos anywhere near:

Social Security/Pensions
Health/Social Care
Law/Policing/Justice
Foreign Policy/Defence
Europe
Education
Finance/Investment/Trade
Energy/Climate Change
Infrastructure/Planning

Anything, even remotely related to the above gets mentioned by a government minister and my default response is “for crying out loud, don’t let them touch it!” – and that list is not finite.

We are not led by donkeys: we’re driven by prats with a penchant for the neoliberal false economy model and an extraordinary culture of blame displacement. They spin a problem into a moral/economic imperative that suits their fault-riven ideology, come up with deeply erroneous solutions that they compound with utter ineptitude in the application and then blame everything and anyone that isn’t them when disaster and/or farce ensues. All the while costing us a bloody fortune in money, time, effort, peace of mind, cohesive society and hope.

The world is sitting on a precipice, gazing into one abyss after another and this Coalition not only exemplifies the thinking that largely brought us to this series of interlocking messes but is actually ravenous and capacious in its appetite to keep carrying on. Business as usual. I don’t trust this Coalition at all with my present and I am extremely anxious about the way it is shaping my future and especially the futures of my children. [I don’t much trust Labour either, who helped enormously to get us here and continues to unnerve with its right-appeasing utterances]

However, the current crop of cretins is clearly dangerous. Spun moral panic informs their policies and reactionary panic defends them. The Coalition is obviously incapable of competently managing anything: not the day-to-day running of a country nor the leading of it out of a crisis. They are the tangible obstacle before us right now. They can’t see beyond their own dogma, they don’t understand the big picture and they conveniently can’t seem to discern an expert from a vested interest. ‘Disingenuous’ runs through this Coalition like unto a stick of rock and, apart from mastering the art of self-preservation, it is clueless, reckless and a threat to us all.

Class clowns in dry wellies

And, suddenly, all at once
Keen to appease, the drips
From the City came wading
On in like class clowns in
Dry wellies with frowns for
The telly and vacuous phrases
Prepared in the chopper to
Counter the anger in unfriendly
Places but coming a cropper
With reddening faces, resorted
To gesture and tedious cliché,
Attended the Media then went
Away.

The fat cats of hubris

The self ‘wealth creators’ will eat up the world
As they ‘help’ make each crisis much worse
They proclaim they are vital
For all our survival
Forgetting their cause is our curse

The fat cats of hubris are stealing a march
On a twisted opinion of worth
For the seedy old bleeders
Think we’re here to feed them
Convinced that their needs should come first

The arrogant greedies want us to believe
That they own all the rights to our shirts
Yes, the cretins are betting
That we’ll keep on letting
Them bank on this serfdom to work

The cheaters and fleecers and stealers of peace
Have sanity, rendered inert
If we don’t hurry up
And rise up from the muck
Then the meek shall inherit the dirt.