and not for long
And, Darling, some get
so very short
in a country of an age
for young guns
and record the sums
A fat lady tunes her ear…
new shoots break clear
outgrow old thought
to root the future with
and open countenance
Young once comes
tomorrow will take
If you seize today
When the chips are down
Security will hurt itself
Let yourself be horrified
Bulldogs bark, powered by ideologies
Brexit has an energy
Flushing through. Flush it out to sea.
I think and feel that I’ve fallen too short of my whole self, this last year. Too angular; too sharply channelled through too few facets of the prism. Reflecting shadow, both my own and not mine, has been cathartic, intriguing, spiralling but would hollow through the inadequacy of its ease.
Faith in Humanity, has been rattled but not destroyed nor yet diminished. Faith in my own has been more tested but it will not fail. We fall that we may rise…
Anger to replace the tears
Delaying fear for the state of humanity
In the very expression of it.
Eat the soul to feed the words;
Become what is looking.
No: Soul can cope. But must she?
And can the air, made acrid where she talks?
The heart and mind say she doesn’t have to.
Rest, now, there is no gap to fill.
I danced with the lashing rain until
I was a lash. Let more words spill
In softer drops. And walk between the shards
To deeper in. There, stand in the storm’s quiet place
And look it in the eye.
To those of you still here, still reading, I thank you for your patience. To those of you who come for the snark, I’m not about to go all fluffy unicorns and angels light but I will try not to be quite so sharp-tongued and unforgiving quite so often. Even if that means writing less. But, who knows: maybe it will lead to writing more… xXx
Brexits think there’s a plot afoot
To scupper their long-held dream
But they forget it is they who won
And they can’t get over the fact that they won
And they have no faith in what they have won
So it seems…
And we who voted Remain:
Who are we to stand in their way?
Who are we to complain?
We must remind them every day,
EVERY SINGLE DAY
What they have done.
‘There’s no secret plot.’ – Democracy did not end the day after the referendum
Ian Dunt: ”The idea of an international elite secretly trying to thwart the people’s will is core to the Brexit narrative.”
James O’Brien: “Barnier is having to explain to the British people what the British government is doing!”
But faithiness was fact enough,
with zip between their tinnied ears,
did bimble bumble utter tosh
and bury Britain before she died
of scam so wide, so deep, so sly,
that some might call it treasonous.
’Just-in-time’: The production system Brexit is set to sabotage – ”Imagine the scenario where goods are waiting at port but are held up by protracted customs checks, compliance procedures, rules-of-origin paper work and the rest. Things could be held up for days or weeks.”
‘How shared regulation can help, rather than hinder, trade’ – Ian Dunt: ”Their (Brexiteers’) error here is a fundamental one and one that speaks to how heavily influenced they are by nostalgia. They think about trade as if it were the Victorian times.”
’Jacob Rees-Mogg is in line for a huge personal windfall when Britain exits the single market’ – But of course, he is.
‘Headspace #20—Crunch time on Brexit’ – Featuring John Curtice with a #finalsay appraisal and a glorious calling out of Gisela Stuart’s constant and ridiculous Brexit/Lexit hopium by Ian Dunt who knows a load of nonsense when he hears it.
In which ‘Greg Hands gets on the wrong side of exasperated Andrew Neil’ over single market and customs union during the two-year transition period. Eventually, an exasperated Neil asked: “Do you know what you’re talking about? Do you have any idea what you’re talking about?”
But, then, nineteen months after the referendum and nearly a year since invoking Article 50, Theresa May and her ministers still can’t agree because the Brexiteers still don’t know or even understand how what they want compares with what is desirable, sensible or even possible…
Waltzes with turmoil,
squaring round holes in a psyche,
blown out in refrain;
falling and rising and dying
a little, again, every day
and whose hill is this, anyway?
Thinking is not the same as knowing,
as feeling is not growing,
just demanding more room to sway.
Ice to heat
Good Imbolc 🕯 Sow well, that good fruit swell xXx