Dear Brexits

Dear Brexits,

I am not talking our country down. You voted to leave. That decision is actively bringing our country down. I am merely observing, reporting and commenting on the myriad dismal consequences of your “will”.

No Brexit is better than a bad Brexit and there is no Brexit that is good.

If this was not sufficiently evident, to you, before the referendum, whether because you were tricked or just did not bother inform yourself, it bloody well should be plenty evident, by now. It is not my fault that you either cannot see or will not admit this.

I love our country and you have endangered her. It is a poor patriotism that would seek to demand my silence.

Regards

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witlessly led

Britain is swinging the lead;
Being witlessly led
By its well-fed ringmasters,
Right into disaster, for crumbs
From the Top Table’s bread

High on their vacuous vistas,
They’ve built with an imbecile’s pride
They keep pushing their luck
Just to cover the fuck-ups
They made with their swivel-eyed lies

They yearn for a future that’s passed
So their best before date they deny
With rhetoric mnemonics
For faux histrionics, they polish the shine
Where their judgement has died

As the blighties of Brexit
That thought themselves smart
Grow increasingly thicker and
Desperate fast, they quicken the proof in
The elbow and arse because,

Even if Brexit where not a dumb farce,
Not one of those bozos is up to the task.

Oh, snowflake

Oh, snowflake, how unique your delicate heart
That glistens in communal blizzards
Of parched intellect

Whose crystalline shards
And feathered spaces
Shape imperfect synecdoches

And bring your frozen deserts
Into sharp relief against the dust
Of desiccated humours

And confusion of
Unfathomable hatred, until
All is powder; like and like

Steal nuance and lay waste
To inconvenient subtleties
On platforms, uniform, attend,

As granular as common sand
And no one is that special
In the end.

 

Big Ben’s off as well

Ding dong bell
Britain’s gone to hell
Who sent it there?
MPs who care
More about Big Ben
Than its maintenance men.
Who’ll get her out?
“Brexit!” they shout.
What a silly ploy was that,
Projecting on an artefact,
An omen’s show and tell,
Wherein the silence, all the stronger knells.

MPs to gather for Big Ben’s bongs ahead of silencing

bet the World

Man, in all his vanity,
so eager to compete,
has bet the World
to beat her at destruction to create,
by the design of an intelligence
he fakes.