someone else’s responsibility

Outside is all rubbish. Literally. It’s the first thing
I see when I open my front door. A nook, directly
opposite, where some down my lane leave their
trash to make easier its increasingly partial
collection. For years I’ve had a dustbin there and,
when I was well and able, I’d clear up the odd
mess happily, whoever’s crap it was. Now, every
week I wonder at both the efforts of too few to
contain and protect theirs from the local wildlife
and the seeming inability of those who are paid, to
completely collect even all the bags that are intact
– even on the weeks when no one’s fly-tipped. So,
there’s always soggy, disintegrating blankets, a bit
of ripped tarpaulin and at least one lonely black bag,
split and spilling its non-recyclable plastic, wasted
food, broken glass, stuff that could’ve, should have
been recycled and wafting around. And, naturally,
some dog shit. In a bag.

No one cares to clear it up, not even the refuse men,
anymore. Refuse: now, there’s an irony… It looks like
people just want it out of the house and think that
past the doorstep is someone else’s responsibility.
I don’t know if it is or not since the contract changed.
The dustmen certainly don’t seem to think it’s theirs,
anyhow (I’m lucky if they put my lid back on) and no
one down my way seems fussed enough to clean it
up, even occasionally.

And it makes me sad and irritable. Not just because
it looks cheap, neglected, dirty and chaotic and
because I’d prefer my surroundings to be beautiful,
clear and clean and cared-for spaces – tidy house;
tidy mind, so to speak – but because it feels like some
depressing, neoliberal metaphor…

then there’s money

Well, there’s money
then there’s money, Honey –
and spent it all –
It’s funny, really, Darling,
how it readily exchanges
where the sun don’t even shine
– and yet it burns away alarming –
Whereas, further down the line,
it’s hard to earn for love or time
but we’ve got coffers full
for cock and bull:
there’s cash to splash on proxy agents,
business trips for entertainment,
decadent engagements
with a myriad of lobbyists.
We’ve subsidies for corporatists
and Public Service hobbyists;
there’s lashings for a futile folly;
empty democratic jollies;
funds for training frenemies
and spying arbitrarily on each
and any citizen.
And war, we can afford,
of course
but, then,
there’s always funds for killing
in the kleptocratic willing
– economic or blood-spilling –
Just there isn’t any money
for the People, any more.


Oh, pour me a gin, mother dear
I’m in need of its numbing respite
For the thought of another five years
Of this neocon tripe
With its sycophant shite
Makes my poor spirit weary with fear
Quickly! Pour me another one, please
For the cartel of thieves
And the wealth they’re accruing
By Dave’s Road to Ruin
Will fix our undoing, it’s clear
Oh, just pass the whole bottle
I’ve senses colossal
To drown in the liquid of tears

To Mr David Cameron

Mr David Cameron,

Or should I call you ‘Dave’? Whatever. Like many in this land, I’ve got a ton of appropriate pseudonyms for you. But it is ‘Prime Minister’ – that leader label that I find wholly inappropriate. You wear it like a size twelve dress on a broomstick and, even if it did fit you better, it still wouldn’t suit you. No tailoring, no shaping belt, nor accessorizing scarf is going to hide that you are unsuitable for the responsibility of high office.

You are a vessel of utter neglect and incompetence.

I find the way you run the country to be so ridiculously inept as to be obscene. I’m looking at all the false economy; the division you are sowing; the forced decline in living standards; the outrageous arrogance of your ministers; your insultingly simplistic mindset; your superficial value-system and arbitrary beliefs; your ignorance that rides roughshod over nuance; your selective memory; your determination to preserve the neoconservative status quo; your obsession with growth and competition; your fixation with privatising everything. Your disingenuous attempts to dress up an entropic laissez-faire as liberty and choice while ensuring our national impoverishment are an affront to our intelligence.

You practise malfeasance on such an extraordinarily wide scale that I wonder: are you really that relentlessly useless or are you actually wicked? Either way, Call-me-Dave, you must know that you are abusing high office and serving us bunch of crap. I think historians and the social commentariat will be debating it for decades. What a legacy, eh, Dave?

Whichever it is; whether you are choreographing or surrendering, it’s grotesque. You and your party are becoming an unbearable burden on the citizens of this country. It will take an unfathomably high velocity to escape the damage you are wreaking with your ludicrous policies.

Your maladministration is toe-curling and, given your insistence on strutting your same rude, crude, feudal guff on the world stage, it is also excruciatingly embarrassing. Even would-be demigod, Tony Blair, managed to hide the full weight of his messiah-for-hire part until after he’d left office! You seem to have no such patience – nor even the sense! You’re a bloody fool and, whether you mean to be or not, a bloody dangerous fool.

If you go now, quickly and quietly, with at least an attempt at a graceful exit, perhaps the contempt, the scorn, the disrespect, the intense dislike, growing in the hearts and minds of the population: that may yet be diluted.

I suggest you leave, Mr Cameron; that you lead your neoliberal self and your party, towards your last hope at some honour and dignity. That way, Britain and her souls may recover some of theirs.

Regards, Juli

Which is scarier?

Which is scarier?
The constant flair
for incompetence
or the daring contempt
and wilful, cold neglect?
Is it the hair-raising
ineptitude or uptight
laissez-faire of greed
and glaring disrespect?

Whichever –
Do we either care or
neither never spare
forgiveness nor forget?