Except…

I accept that Brexit won
But I choose Remain
And Democracy is dynamic

As I accept the rain
But still have an umbrella
And I still bring the cushions in from the garden

As I accept mozzarella
But I also want diversity
And cheese is a beautiful plural

The Hordes’ Prayer

Ourselves, who art in flux,
Hollow be our game.
Our kingdom come.
Our will be done
In circuses as we are given.
Give us each day our daily threads.
And forgive us our tweets
As we forgive those who tweet against us.
And lead us not into correlation
But deliver us from weevils;
For ours is the kingdumb,
The sour and the poorly,
Forever [forever?]
Oh, man…

Bigot

You can keep your tiny boxes
To yourself, my fundamental fool
Along with all the certainty
In which you have been schooled
For if I thought obnoxious doctrine
Was a relevant life tool
I’d’ve gladly walked the catechism
Of my own accord

So you can take your pious overreach
And shove it where imagination
Festers in your whimsy, flimsy,
Soul-refining mind and wind your neck in
Lest the reckoning
You beckon in is thine;
You mind your own soul, chum
And I’ll take care of mine.

I can do without your pity
And your precious little wisdoms
And your judgemental prescriptions –
You can stick ’em with
Your nonsense conscience
Where the sun don’t shine
Because, despite your crude reproof
I know I’m fine.

 

(Originally posted, August 2013)

Cut on the bias

The one four zero firing squad,
In characters, cut on the bias;
Judge and jury, fury fuelled
Unsubtle, show
There’s none so blind as
What believed becomes
I know
And what is paid attention grows
To bind the mind
To preconception –
Each direction bound for Rome.
They seek them here; they seek them there
And register signs everywhere
To personalise in tones
That suffocate and trivialise the greater play
And woe betide all messengers –

Well, they would say that,
Wouldn’t they…

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.

Cognition disabled

Between want and its think,
does the intellect shrink
to reject all conditions
that challenge position
as feeling meets static
in willing fanatics,
attracted to zealotry,
simple and tacit.

Cognition disabled,
crude labels get fabled
in finely tuned riffs,
adding pith to the myths
that enable the risibly
cheap narratives

as if actual factuals
didn’t exist;
as if truth got its proof
by the gift of low wish
and the gallop of Gish

until, hook, line and sinker
the sheep become fish

Cause: lost and found

In every party there are nasties
Tribal mirrors, every one
Pots and kettles in fine fettle
Bang their polarising drums

*~*~*

I feel a little odd. Detached from narratives but tethered by consciousness. Like everything is just next door.

There’s a mountain of injustice to level but I can’t bring myself to fully join in with any political organisation. I don’t feel as though I will fit into any of the groupthink box-rooms. I don’t think I want to, either. They come across as so stifling; so distorting. So small. And the minute you step into one, it looks as if you are expected to become the property of its ethos and objectified vessel of its mission.

And I just can’t pick one cause above another. They’re all connected and nearly all vital and devotion to any one part seems selfish; almost irresponsible. That sounds counter-intuitive, I suppose. Ungracious, even. After all, throughout human history there are people who devote their whole lives to a single focus. And there’s strength in numbers, right? And, anyway, you have to start somewhere, yes? But the grass is always drier and patchier on the other side of the fence and, if I sincerely believed that I might be able to save the nursery by rescuing a baby, which baby do I choose? Maybe I should admire those who want to and think that they can. Perhaps, deep down, I do.

As yet, though, I see no causal group to which I am enough attracted and in which I have sufficient confidence, to wear its badge. Albeit that I’m interested in most topics and quite captivated by many of their issues, I can’t reconcile the sentiments I share with those that make me recoil. I don’t want to be swallowed up by a tribe that will only reflect fragments of my values and whose ideas, approach and methods are, too often, not at all matched to mine. Neither can I bear the thought of being infected; weighed down and distracted by the trolls of ignorant misdirection and oversimplification. (Actually, I’d as likely be turned out on my ear for regular and persistent dissent. I think I’m one of those there’s always one people…) I can’t help it. It’s not that I’m not a team player. I know I am. Just I need to respect the team, be able to clearly see its integrity and properly understand and agree with its purpose and actions.

I don’t know how much this attitude is down to my own psyche or the damage of media spin and the extremely off-putting actions of the rabids in both the physical and etheric echo chambers who go, keenly, from impotent passion to explosive pettiness on the turn of a meme. Is my character flawed that I am so resistant to being pigeon-holed and herded; that I would rather journey separately than become moulded and shredded by a factional collective and its vicious opponents? How much of this is down to the wisdom of instinct – for instinct, it is – and how much is it a consequence of the country’s increasing polarisation by knee jerk outrage? Am I too full of nuance to commit to transitional fashions or a terribly flakey, thrice-denying Peter?

The world is in shadow. It is tempting to see the missionaries as pockets of Light’s hope but such movements are quickly made insular. They create cultish obstacles to sympathy and practical wisdom, ending up as distractions that inhibit rational debate and understanding, obscuring and delaying effective solutions. The suppressed very easily become self-righteous suppressors; those that fight polarisation in bubbles too readily create new-level binaries. The consciousness and perspective of the Public is in a fragile state; common emotion and reason are popularly out of sync. Every shift in consciousness is one tiptoe forward; two leaps back. What should be healthy, progressive friction is static in an airtight cage. That’s what I see.

I am irrevocably and willingly plugged in to the collective consciousness. I exist in solidarity with the highest and noblest of all human potential. I love my beautiful planet and all its teeming, wondrous life and mystery. I want to help to heal it; to heal us; to heal me. Is this better done by me lengthening the shadows next door or by concentrating on shortening my own? I feel pathetic in the face of the mountain. And yet, I think and feel that I do more good – and certainly less harm – by attending to the friction of inner light in my own house. Intuitively; experientially, I feel the more whole for it. That is use and cause, enough, both to me and to mine.

“Moderate”?

Moderate“?
Phfft… What?
Medium?
Measured?
Mild and fair?
Temperate?
Modest?
Adequate?
Ok?
Even?
Within Reason?

Where?

So-so
Easy
No great shakes
Bog-standard
Average
Second-rate
Middling (to diddly squat)
Insipid
Mediocre
Uninspired
Sober
Meh…
Commonplace
Controlled (for hire)
Bargain-basement
Regulated
Decent (liar)

There?