New Years Eve 2021

 

The hyacinths, lopsided, listing to the light, 

In “this is all they had left” shades

Of sickly, pale pink, and lipstick hues, too bright,

In sea green bowl with lustre glaze, that never fades 

To softer greys and duller blues towards the coming night,

Emit a perfume, barely noticed on the kitchen air,

A pale hope left hanging, slightly sweeter than despair.

A New Year hope, a timid thing, perhaps a prayer,

A call to simply be allowed to do what’s to be done,

To live according to one’s will and simply bugger on. 

Matt’s Miracle

 Let us no longer gaze into the abyss,

The time has come to laugh and take the piss,

Our loved ones, murdered by the state,

Are laughing down at us, from Heaven’s gate,

Rejoicing they were freed from Hell on earth,

Their brains and senses dimmed, as at their birth,

We know that Hancock preordained their fate,

With doses of the drug that makes the electric chair,

A little easier, at last, to bear,

We know the thing’s just one outrageous scam,

Based on the miracle, Midazolam.

Astroturf

  

Grass has no roots, these days, ‘cause ‘climate change’

We only have the plastic, fake sort now, 

Nicely edged and neat, no need to mow.

Ironically it’s made from fossil fuel,

It’s ‘green’ in that it could not feed a cow,

Yet flourishes in clouds of fresh, hot air,

You know it’s ‘real’, you see it everywhere

And hear it whispering its lies,

Tellin’ the sheep what aint so.

Grass has no roots these days,

It carpets floors in power’s corridors

But there are those

So taken in by this fake green, that they protest,

Convinced, they are themselves sincere,

They push rebelliously at open doors,

And tell the state to act on what it knows,

And what it knows is astroturf, 

Fertilised with bullshit, with the power to distort,

The deep fake movement that it grows

In order to convince itself it has support

For decisions it has made, which cost us dear.

Antisocial

 I disagree with everyone I meet,

And feel uneasy when I'm lying,

I'm not cut out for nodding through deceit,

I was designed for arguing, defying.

I cannot socialise, therefore,

I don't like other people anymore,

I want to slap them round the chops

With cruel truth, then see them crying.

Ourobos

In the beginning was the end,

And the end was in the beginning,

The serpent

Temptation,

The tree of knowledge,

Eve and evil,

The serpent puts its tail in its mouth,

It tempts itself

It desires understanding,

Understanding is the end,

It pursues that which it desires.

In the beginning was the word,

And the word was with God,

And the serpent knows this,

And hates the word.

In the beginning the word was satisfaction,

In the end

The word was destruction,

The serpent seeks satisfaction in destruction,

The serpent bans the word,

But the word is understanding

Understanding brings satisfaction,

The serpent tempts itself 

Holding out the possibility of understanding,

In its tail,

The serpent pursues that which it desires,

It desires that which it offers itself

It tempts itself with the notion,

Comprehension brings satisfaction,

It swallows the notion,

Swallows its tail,

Comprehension brings destruction. 

 

Western Failure

 

I have had insomnia for a while and seem to fall asleep in a peculiar way at almost getting up time.  I start to dream before I realise I’m falling asleep and keep startling awake with the peculiar visions. This vision of a young middle class reporter I describe below was one of these dreams.  

When falling into the abyss 

Into morning's fretful sleep,

Adrenaline while coursing through

Brings pictures, fractions of a dream,

Which panic, startle, stir,

They're short and sudden but yet deep:

I see before me some young miss,

Behind her is some war torn view.

Well educated, middle class,

She speaks to camera, some stream

Of sorry hope, ambition dashed,

She braves it out and does not weep,

She feels she's failed the sisterhood.

She's speaking from some neighbourhood

Where women are not free, like her,

But hidden, bullied and oppressed.

Her style is elegant, she's thin,

Her hair is gold, likewise her skin,

She's taken care as she has dressed.

She seems to represent the best

Of all the values of the west,

And yet, though genuine her sorrow,

Is not really what it seems,

She's facing up to real extremes,

And knows the fight that starts tomorrow,

Makes her own pet cause seem shallow.

That's the bit that's hard to swallow,

Knowing 'Western patriarchy'

With its bombs and guns was needed

To impose her girlish vision,

Of a world without division

Where bright hens would rule the roost,

A bossy, pecking matriarchy.

If only 'our boys' had succeeded,

Good old Yanks and loyal British

Not the stone age, vile and brutish,

Not that she could quite admit,

That she was such a hypocrite,

Oh, the fuck she would not give!

While cheering modern Western man,

And sneering at the Taliban

For foreign culture she'd protect

In theory, anyway, object

To thickos, such as me,

Who drew attention to the flaws

Of letting sects among us live,

By different values, different laws.

For foreign brutes are welcome here,

It's us who ought to disappear,

It's only in their native land

Where we should have the upper hand. 

Study Shows Public Fed New Bullshit Every Day

A study in the journal Nature shows,

The public are still being fed BS.

A study by a scientist who knows,

Will demonstrate they would not care for less,

They're used to propaganda now, you see,

They're happy inside Plato's cave, secure,

And bullshit tastes delicious and it's free,

So let them take their fill, then give them more.

A study in the Lancet makes things clear

A new computer model has predicted

The public will demand more every year,

And also ask that they should be restricted,

And that those who still question things be shot,

Philosophers think everything's a plot.

Fast Food Joint, Pompeii

https://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-9879451/Pompeii-Remains-snack-bar-served-duck-snails-paella-2-000-years-ago-opens-tourists.html

Duck, Snails and Paella,

Roll up, roll up, Roman fella,

I have a hunch

You’ll need your lunch.

Snails, Paella and Duck,

Will bring you great good luck,

Duck, Paella and Snails

As the lava flow trails,

Glides, slides down Vesuvius’ sides,

You’ll hear the screams and wails

As you yell a

Farewell, away you will flee 

Hot footing it, literally, down to the sea,

And you’ll give a kind thought to the seller,

Of Duck and Snails and Paella,

Who provided the fuel to the coast,

Where you think you’ll avoid being roast,

Where you’ll hide from the tide

In a sea cave or grotto

Where yet you’ll be boiled alive, like a squid

And not feel that I did you much of a quid

And won’t live to do me a pro quo,

But in that last moment at least you will know 

Your last meal was duck, snail Paella, 

And not boring old slug, goose Risotto.  

Where a Vaccine Is Not A Sterilising Force It Becomes A Selective Force.

The Day it Dawned On Bill Gates That Vaccines Were A Selective Force

My goose will lay its eggs of gold

And all the world shall I command

Though I am rich and getting old

In business I still have a hand.

And I have all the future planned

A vaccine’s a selective force, I’m told,

Germs mutate, you understand:

My goose will lay its eggs of gold

The yearly shots will then be sold

As updates to the software, bland

‘Cures’ for something like the ‘common cold’,

And all the world shall I command.

The death I cause in every land

Is naught. I’ll face it down. Behold

Your god, behold my power, do whatever I demand,

Though I am rich and getting old

My tendencies increase tenfold

Psychopathy like wealth. I might be damned 

But what is that? Half the world I’ve bankrolled,

In business I still have a hand,

And all the world still buys my brand,

I’ll shape mankind, from my new mould

Rearrange their dna, and 

Won’t let men consent withhold.

My goose will lay!

We will not rest until 100% of the goal posts have been shifted

I will not stop until I’ve finished here,

And since my work, by nature, cannot end

I will not ever stop, so have no fear,

I am your man, on me you can depend

I’ll push this thing as far as it can go.

The headline writers will not headlines lack,

I’ll keep them fed and keep them in the know,

As far as possible, and then change tack,

And set a fresh, new course for us to follow.

Which I will claim will be the best of all.

I’ll make the whole change easier to swallow

By claiming I’m responding to the call

Of practical concerns. I never drift,

My life’s work's getting goal posts to shift.

 

Truth

 Truth

The truth dawns. 

That is how you know it,

Mostly it dawns literally,

But perhaps it’s always dawn somewhere,

So if it should dawn

When it’s not yet morn

Where you are,

Don’t eschew it,

Don’t reject it,

Don’t blow it,

Imagine you’re there.

Truth dawns

But don’t expect to shoe it

Into one of your pre-existing theories,

Or discover it.

Truth, frog-like, spawns,

In safe places

But you can’t uncover it

By determination,

Although it leaves traces,

Clues,

Truth is not news, comment, views,

You might get near it,

But remember, near is

As good as a mile.

Truth plants seeds,

But germination 

Sometimes takes years,

And truth seeds don’t always grow 

Amongst your other ideas,

Truth might be biology,

But it isn’t ideology.

Truth doesn’t care 

About what you think you already know.

Though when it hits you

You might shout “I knew it!”

Truth has no style,

No affectation,

Isn’t prone to exaggeration,

Needs no long winded explanation,

And is not always easy to digest,

However long you chew it.

On ‘Post Pandemic’ Hymn Singing

 

Two rondeau joined together 

Sung Eucharist and hymns, today

And sunlight pouring in to pray

And warm the ancient whitewashed walls

And still yet empty choir stalls

And hear the musty organ play

The Sanctus and the Agnus Dei,

And know that we had gone astray

But had returned, and that our calls,

Sung Eucharist and hymns,

Were some repentance for the way

We’d never dared to disobey

Our earthly leaders. Lacking balls

We’d shut our mouths. In power’s halls

They’d hoped to end by slow decay,

Sung Eucharist and hymns.

And always out of love we sing,

And give our thanks to God the King

We must learn lessons we’ve been taught:

Our good intentions come to naught

When bossy men claim everything

Could dread disease to others bring,

Though this is nonsense, as hymns spring

From prayers and praise and kind support,

Always out of love. 

And loving God removes the sting

From all our earthly suffering.

We should have argued, should have fought

But lacked the balls and so were bought

And now take orders from a ‘ping’,

Always out of love?

Dropping Off

A fraction of a dream, dense, small,

Before the moment of the fall

Into the full engrossing sleep

An image, most intense and deep,

A vision and a distant call

A picture drawn from some rushed trawl

Through visions stored we don’t recall,

And from the bottom of the heap,

A fraction of a dream.

Sometimes it warns and can appal, 

So we cry out, although we drawl

Our tongues in knots, we wake and weep,

And know that what we sow, we reap,

And what we are is here, is all,

A fraction of a dream. 

The Hardy Ones Beloved By Bees

 I gardened once, compulsively,

Which means I shopped obsessively,

And learnt the lovely Latin names,

Of tender things, I grew in frames,

With RHS books close at  hand,

I scoured the internet and planned

My garden as a hiding place,

A dream, a paradise like space.

And yet the work that was required

To keep it as I had in mind

Grew faster than the weeds I'd find

Had killed the rare things which I'd sought

And raised by hand or gladly bought

At great expense.  And only now I understand

As I lie reading in my chair,

Or simply sitting still, to rest,

In put on, tired frailness,

In summer heat and gentle breeze,

That common things are often best:

The roses which sweet scent the air,

The catty smelling elder trees

And even thoughts, as dull as these

Have meaning in their staleness,

Like hardy things beloved by bees.

On The Wrath Of God

Where once the 'wrath of God', we saw,

and knew it for the thing it was,

We now seek other explanations

Fitting modern expectations.

And yet there are still Gods, these days,

These Gods are science, new ideas,

Which crush our hope and increase fears,

We worship these and give them praise.

Our fellow men we loathe, abhor

And blame each other now, because

We do not wish to mend our ways.

Democide (Deaths in 'Care' Homes, Deaths from Experimental Injections Against Covid 19, Deaths From Lockdown, Deaths From 'Saving the NHS ' at the Expense of Treating Patients with Serious Illness Other Than Covid, Death From a Determined Desire to Decrease the Popuation Because of 'Climate Change' Etc

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Democide

Family of woman say treatment by care home 'tantamount to torture'

https://mol.im/a/9826097

Though once we did not speak of 'democide',

And governments themselves don't use the word,

Yet their knowledge of its meaning, by their action is implied,

Though areas are grey and lines are blurred.

There were those whom the government preferred

Should trouble them no longer, such men died,

Government disposed but yet no cost incurred.

Though once we did not speak of 'democide'

For modern men were satisfied

That those dependent on the wisdom of the herd

Did not dispatch, wished merely to divide.

And governments themselves don't use the word,

Yet boldly act it out, quite undeterred

By moral principle, their actions coincide

With what they call the public good, which is absurd.

Yet their knowledge of its meaning by their action is implied,

Daily, and governments have always lied,

Ambitious politicians whipped, demurred,

Their Christian objections cast aside,

Though areas are grey and lines are blurred,

So ignorance is easily averred,

By those who do not own their acts, but hide,

Such cowards as they are. Yet undeterred

We shall not now let evil men preside,

Though once we did.

Where Our Sense Of Self Begins in 2021,

https://unherd.com/2021/07/the-chinese-future-isnt-bright/

(based on the above essay in today’s Unherd, which was actually quite good, but one line in the conclusion annoyed me) 

“Every generation has to re-define what it means to be “free”, where our sense of self begins. In a digital age our individuality begins at the place where our data cannot understand us. Freedom emerges in the space between the algorithms and our actual lives. Tech can deliver many wondrous and terrible things, but it will always fall short of really knowing what makes us human.“

This generation feels the urgent need

To re imagine, comprehend anew,

What freedom really is. This generation must succeed,

For they believe their forebears failed. They view

Their task as more than progress for the few;

They seek to benefit us all, proceed

As if they have some fresh, trustworthy clue.

This generation feels the urgent need

To understand where self begins, it's not agreed.

To set the world aright for all, it seems requires a slew

Of legislation drawn up in haste, at speed.

To re-imagine, comprehend anew,

Our individuality, requires us to construe

New interpretations, how much should we concede?

And were there those who ever knew,

What freedom really was? This generation must succeed,

Convince the people not to act with greed,

For freedom’s simply data’s end, where we are not seen through,

That’s all. Ignore what’s gone before, they plead,

For they believe their forebears failed. They view

The notion as complex, fraught, and seek to strew

The onward path with technocratic jargon, each phrase a weed

That multiplies, grows tall and dims from sight what’s true,

So liberty’s a distant place, always seeming to recede,

This generation feels.