Sunday, 29 August 2021

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.   Yet another I had was even more symbolic, I discovered a dog or cat had made a mess on a Persian carpet several days before, it was cold and greyish, crusted over on top but liquid dark brown beneath, I wanted to clear it up, but simply used a cloth to rub it in, deeper and wider into the carpet. I need to stop reading the news in the middle of the night.) 

When falling over 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. 

Old Shit on the Persian Rug

Last night I dreamed a pile of shit

Upon a Persian carpet lay

And I had come to deal with it

And clear the awful mess away.

It was cold

And coloured grey,

A foul smelling canine pat,

And crusted over on the top,

Had lain there long, was getting old,

Yet I approached it with a mop

And simply squashed it, made it flat,

And rubbed it deep into the pile,

And then against the pattern’s grain,

And spread it out so far and wide

It almost reached the other side,

And added water,

Made it wetter,

Thinking this would make better,

It only left behind a stain. 

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.

Thursday, 19 August 2021

Fast Food Joint, Pompeii

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.  

Tuesday, 10 August 2021

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.