Equinot

Human equations
In the company of Light
But not quite equal

Lost: the plot

Once upon a time
In the British Isles
The People lost the plot
A lot
For a Blighty while:

They dove into their navels
They high-fived their polished pride
Took advantage
Took for granted
Labels old enough to die.

They laid tables with ballistics
Played interpreting statistics
Graded experts unrealistic
Dignified the narcissistic
Swaying lore to cast the Law aside;
No-platformed or projected
Poaching power to decide
Because agenda mattered more
So bore false witness in an effort
To control the spring of tides.

Some laid traps
And some bade hacks
To frame the facts
While others cried
Conspiracy and wolf
Because they both applied
As lies drew pacts
In packs to hide
Until the pros were cons
And cons were pros
And any pumped-up so-and-so
Was weaponised in service
To misguide.

The rowdy rabbles scrabbled
Best to justify hyperbole
With prefix like
‘’The truth is..’
But it set nobody free because
They waged their wars on history’s shores
And clutched at straws
To fill their stores with futures really
Only naked emperors can see.

Clear perspective took a nose-dive
In the voice of tribalese
Based on promotion of emotion
And selective memory.
And soon the Kingdom, so united
In its muddled fear and snide
Did fail to notice it was all at sea
As literally met irony
In harmony, allied
To drag the People down and drown them
In the murky deep vainglory of the ride.

mother tongue

Pardon me
but,
could you speak more slowly, Dave?
Your right-wing propaganda conjugations
aren’t my mother tongue –
I think my ears have integration accent.
I hear
that hate and fear, in the infinitive,
is clearly meant
but wonder at the double-Dutch translation.
See, the doing in your flow
sows predication on imperative,
as though you did construct
a comprehensively deliberate conflation.

Of raucous, baying mobs

Sickness splits the land
and grips the eager;
powers up the all-expectant,
coiled and ready –
heady with psychosis,
loses latency.

So waking to their call,
enlists the sheep
and keeps the dumb
enthralled;

bids clarions to sing their path
as light absenting
from an unrelenting dark;

begets misguided prophets
seeking self-regard and carrion
with shares and calling cards.

The raucous, baying mobs
of Britain’s isles, with putrid voice
lift up as pryoclasts of toxic resin;
all at once cacophonous in heat
and straining from the common
lanes and finest streets, do crack
the hairline fractures open;
thicken up the air with words
of biting hate and clichéd phrases;
all Time’s labels are unleashed –

and thus it is
they must be swallowed.
What fragility! How easily
is unity so hollowed!