Tuesday 15 March 2016

March 1

There've been no posts on either blog for ages - I've been busy with work and other things, and to be honest I haven't got much interesting on my mind, nor listened to much new music or watched many new films.

But I like to keep it ticking over. I unwisely said a few months ago that I'd use the blog mainly as as vehicle for improving writing verse. Nonsense, of course. I've done neither for ages. But I have, at least, a couple of things I wrote a few months ago to keep the blog ticking over.

I had a go at writing some pessimistic polemic - there's nothing particularly new here but there is at least some ripe rage and I managed to stick closely to a slightly awkward rhyme scheme, so I'm happy enough with it.


Those goading right wing fight hawks, smuggened up
 to rosy relish in the puking bliss
of victory, doubled over and in bold
blue capital C condescension, kiss
their own worst features patriotically,
impatient for a victim kind enough to lay out cold
with one breathtaking sucker punch, a sleight of hand which twists
the neck, attacks the brain and breaks the wrists.

The tricks they can resort to with no fear
Of nights disrupted by the pricks of cruel
Self-loathing range in subtlety, but serve
to spark new outrage without fail, and fool
The rump who rally round robotically
To claim the victim, rife with pride and high on nihilist nerve,
A drain on good resources and a privileged pariah
Who has no business holding his chin higher.

The richest joke, they’ll tell us, while their knives
Carve out our eyes – 'we sold you our old traps
But you’d no clue how best to use them, nor,
Of course, the heart. You misread all our maps
And mimicked the dark trade pathetically.
There is nothing so amusing as a left-wing slack jaw
Trying to sing a hymn he can’t abide, his shoulders taut
At meekly spouting all he so long fought.'

Our tragedy is weakness as a sign
Of moral strength. The winner’s game’s employs
Such shameless disregard for history’s arc
From shadow men who leave it to the boys
To waste time speaking out prophetically
On hope and progress – luxuries for the corduroy chattering class,
They spit, such elegantly brazen poisonous tirades
With gleeful privilege that never fades.

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