this brand of Conservatism

Why on earth would anyone still vote for this brand of Conservatism?

Demonstrably they are false economists. Look around at the ‘strong economy’ they say they are building: it is borne by an insecure, impoverished, paranoid and divided population. They have belittled society by dividing and stripping it of resources and by acting too much on the behalf of those who need the least support but often the tightest regulation.

They show little respect for Democracy and Justice, act as though history were a blueprint and have no reverence for constitutional complexity. They are hollow and shallow. They are feudal, cynical, selfish, short-sighted opportunists who undermine the sensible and wonderful to promote the insidious and entropic. Their worldview is neither ethical nor sustainable.

Voting for this brand of Conservatism is actively choosing a trickle-down cap on aspiration and cohesion that will take out those who believe it will preserve them as surely as it is busily taking out those who already know it won’t. It is actively choosing the most unnecessarily precarious future.

If seven years of manifest incompetence and arrogance have not made this clear, then the Tories’ stubborn la la la fingers in their ears response to the consequences of impending Brexit and the utter vulgarity and horror that is Trump should have made it so, by now.

If Theresa May can keep calm and carry on selling weapons to Saudi Arabia, now, how ethical will she be when our well-being is outsourced? When it is determined by our fear and another’s favour?

If she can hide behind robotic refrains and dispatch pre-programmed proxies because she is too busy micro-mismanaging our affairs – affairs that she treats as though we were a ‘bloody difficult’ inconvenience – how available and accountable will she be when Humanity and the very Planet requires our express solidarity and cooperation?

Perhaps she is so robotic because she is still trying to convince herself. Maybe the only way she can get through this hell she is making is to keep going, pretending that she knows what she is doing. Perhaps this whole can of conservative Brexit-election worms is making her ill and too panicked to risk the exposure; to endure the scrutiny. Perhaps…

However, if she can set her political compass to obeying Paul Dacre’s twisted mind and petty soul, how strong and stable are her principles? If her policies are to be founded on values with such missionary zeal, which is her true north: her parochial Christian devotion or the rabid Daily Mail?

May is an algorithmic marionette, bid to outsource and she asks that we come unto her through flawed notions of patriotism, kippered fairy tales and a blind but absolute trust in her and her team of strings.

If she can so readily and consistently outsource Maybots to represent the interminable vagaries of her puppet mind while she scurries about, micro-managing everything into socio-economic straitjackets, will she not also outsource and shrink our prosperity, our sovereignty and our dignity to Luck and the good or bad grace of others? Of course she will. It’s the Will of her People.

 

When is enough?

When is enough enough?
When will it give?
When ornamental plans
And the dead hand of hubris
Berate the precipice?
When is too much?
When the State is who hates?
When fake is the real news
And theocracy an economic startup?
When the individual and collective
Are mutually exclusive?
When is enough enough?
When Overton is the squeaky wheel
And emotion is its grease?
When it takes police with guns
to protect Democracy? And Gina
To remind us who and what it is for?
When the greater mass has barest weight
Yet bears it all
And snake-oil is imposed as fate?
When the coiled springs
Of claustrophobic souls take leap?
Too late.

got rote right down

wash, rinse, repeat
time and rhyme
our story beats

got rote right down
in lines
in rounds

the past unlearned
returns to reach

tomorrow bound
the earworms burn our dancing feet

 

 

We’ve got ourselves a good old-fashioned revival, folks.

Creeping Charisma

When a ‘populist’ looks more like the creep you try hard not to find yourself alone with at parties and, because few in your circle seem to be willing or able to properly stand up to them, makes you feel uneasy, even when they’re absent, because you now can’t help but question your peers’ judgements and boundaries on a whole host of other things.

New cans; old worms

Global or local, big or small picture, humans are politically riven with both justifiable and manufactured agendas. Whether as bolsters to old conflicts or newly perceived correlations, contemporary symptoms become the causes of tomorrow, especially when they are misunderstood and mishandled. There and here brews a god almighty convergence of violent complaint. New cans; old worms. History’s harvest.

Some people are still actively relishing the disturbing fragility of our times; they have waited so long, worked so hard for the potential of such days as these. They are the nihilists and the dispossessed, seeking retribution for the state of their lives, real, imagined and relative.

So they pour scorn and claim betrayal as a means to myriad, dissonant ends and invest in the cathartic revenge pictures and nebulous promises of restitution painted by charlatans and incompetents who take the righteous, justifiable indignation of the Commons and genetically modify it with conspiracies, ideological wishes and expedient scapegoats. Free-market patriotism.

Their default strategy is blanket blame by demographic whack-a-mole. They lump together all the characters, functions and effects of establishment, class and information in much the same paranoid, misinformed way as people who think that all drugs are all the same – just BAD, man. Their solution, the Brexit/Trump effect, is no better reasoned than cutting off your right arm because it might make the left one stronger. They turn creative destruction into throwing out, not just the proverbial baby, along with the scummy recycled bath water but also the actual bath.

They became those for whom no proof was either possible or necessary, even in the face of indisputable facts. Until, suddenly, it is. All that certainty was merely prologue to their next sense of betrayal, delivered, wholly predictably, by the capriciousness and ineptitude of their own brokers. And Hell on Earth hath no fury like a co-saboteur scorned.

The sane world watches, nervously, holding its breath.

Little Kingdom of England

Little Kingdom of England
Too big for its boots‬
Shoots from the hip
As it limps in pursuit
Of the means to equip
For its own ill-repute

More slightly goes Blighty
Reduced to pipsqueak
By the hubris it conjures
With dumb overreach
Into each unforced blunder
And liturgy preached.

The rump of the islands
Small-minded in blue
Getting fancy-dressed up
In its great-aunt’s red shoes
But they’re too big to dance in
And stained with mildew.

Little England in stature
Gone large with its yapper
Gone charging in public parks
Mad like the clappers
Tail-chasing in neighbours’ yards
With larger snappers.