Weeble

The would-be queen of Blighty land
Straddles UKIP and Miliband.
She has kiplits predicting her upcoming plans
While from Red Ed’s campaign shtick
Is busily nicking as fast as she can

With a flat for the earthing
She’s birthing a sham;
With a kitten she’s fishing
to reel in the JAMs.

There’s no substance;
No matter:
This one-woman-band
Is controlling the trust
As she grand-tours the Kingdom
She means to command.

She’s the coalesced boss of
The chaos at hand
And many have wondered:
How is it May stands?
But the Press and electorate,
Absent of light,
Keep on playing her song
And cementing her right
And a scaffold so strong
Keeps a weeble so long
As the pump and the heel
Are the deal in demand.

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.

#GE2017 manifestos: I can’t wait…

Well, I for one, am most keen to see the #GE2017 party manifestos. I can’t wait to read the print versions of their just-trust-us declarations. What a relief it will be, to finally hear the official prosody of their aspirations. I can hardly contain myself, so anxious am I for the regurgitation of all those populist promises and pompous assertions. Hmm.. hard or soft utopia? It will be quite the rush, mandating an abstraction for the Brexit negotiations to then render meaningless. Still, it passes the time, doesn’t it? So, here’s to taking back control of perfidious delusions. 🥂 Lead on, Leaders.

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.