Monday, 12 June 2017

How It Really Is. (Sonnet)

To 'love one's neighbour as oneself', requires
One first to love oneself, so one might know
What sort of thing love is, yet it transpires
One is not lovable. One cannot show
One's neighbour love therefore, and so instead
One settles for a paltry substitute -
One stops just short of wishing he were dead.
Since, if he were, one could not institute
One's little squabbles over trivia
And breathe them into fiery campaigns 
And elevate them to quadrivia -
Important subjects, which he then disdains,
Refuses to address, but out of spite,
Pretends that at some future time he might.

Sunday, 4 June 2017

June

June is the woodworm month
When the bastards hatch and fly,
Having taken their fill of the sapwood
They crawl out as adults to mate and die.

They eat nothing at all in this season,
Having taken their fill in their youth,
Though they seem to need wetness to thrive,
In such liberal doses we wonder why
We provided such conditions,
Nurtured, kept them alive,
Turned a blind eye to the truth,
And when challenged, disavowed.

Were we devoid of all reason
That we kindly hosted them
Allowed them to live among us,
Turn inherited beauty to dust?

Why did we not protect ourselves,
From the damp and the mould and the must?
Too late to call the Rentokill man
Too late to keep safe and dry,
Yet too late, simply to trust.
We just watch in tears, 
Crumble, perish.
And fear of killing our silly dreams
Keeps the poison in the can.

Why did we love what was modern, 
The untried and worthless crap,
Why did we scorn, and not prize what we had?
Why did we embrace and cherish 
Weak, back of the fag pack ideas?
And why did we keep our best things hidden,
Questioning the existence 
Of innate good or bad?
Why did we really not care,
As the maggots grew strong on our sap?