Wednesday, 5 August 2015


Our freedom is not manifest in looks,
A man in jeans and tee shirt with tattoos
With shaven head, and pierced brow or nose
Is no less spied on, no less forced to bide by arbitrary rules,
Than his counterpart in suit and shirt and tie.
And yet he thinks the snook he cocks by turning on its head
The hangover of sumptuary law,
Is sufficient of itself to show he schools
His mind in ways of liberty.  
Fashion is a form of tyranny
And laughs at those who don't perceive the irony
Of conforming to a rebel's code of dress,
Believing, as they do, that they themselves
Are quite apart, beneath its reach and able to express
Their individuality.

And it's offered as a panacea for all ills
A hard crust dunked in laudanum to soothe a starving child
And embedded deep within it is the barb:
The idea that we are freer since we appear wild,
That we can portray
Liberty in what we wear,
Embody freedom in our choice of garb,
Blinds us to the truth. In trying to be fair
And put things right,
In trying to make amends for history,
In ignorance, not thinking of the consequences,
Only that which is sufficient to the day,
Such fools have rushed straight in,
And freedom has been trampled, crumbled away.

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