Posts Tagged ‘Political’

The politicos must be ambidextrous,
Full control of robotic limbs,
Both starboard and port,
Built of steel comprised of voter ballots,
These men are performers to be sure,
Paragons of dexterity,
Through rarely of intent,

They take the stage,

These cold iron jugglers,
Able to aptly spin so many plates,
Receptacles holding human welfares,
The lives of constituents,
Or underlings,
Depending on whom you ask,
Critic or sycophant,

Some plates will be laid low,

These robots wear human suits,
Manufactured for one purpose,
Powerful hands of stately cunning,
Only one plate is truly a priority though,
Both hands indeed focus on that,
That plate that holds their own fortunes and positions,
No chance of that plate slipping,

It is the reason for this show to begin with.

A novel new blight has arisen,
It is upon the tongues of all,
With the same frequency as hellos and farewells,
The covid virus,
The new political and media months flavour,
An ailment embellished,
Despite its lethal effects,

The initial symptom being a destruction of all sense,
Eagerly followed by the choking of the weak,
Indeed let it be known it is a foul affliction,
Lives shattered and irrevocably altered,
Not purely by this virus itself,
But by legislative hammers of feeble men,
Flaccid controls in the guise of genius,

It has taken over,
But what of the others?
Those recieved of other illnesses,
Cancers and strokes and fractures and derangement,
They are skipped over,
Verily banished from the facilities meant to aid them,
Sent to form morgues within their hovels,

Souls perish every hour to these curses,
But the darling of the elite takes the stage,
The pundits preach fear overblown,
Fear the covid,
There is only covid,
But I ask of you,
Does covid matter more than all other ills?

Amidst the battery fire and shrapnel,
Ripostes and mud and barbed wire,
Warfare is glorious,
A vehement symphony of iron and gore,
Triumphant charges and resounding firing lines,
Dark clouds braiding with sulphur,
Nations forms are in flux,

You are a soldier,
Thrust your bayonet into that opposing commoner,
To increase your masters demesne by inches,
For those men who sip wine in silken tents,
In elite safety,
For those whom paint borders,
Your blood and your opponents the currency for miles,

There is no grandeur to be found here,
For the common man it is naught but hell,
A charnel house,
And yet for your flag you enlist,
Fire your salvo into that poor mans flank,
Fight for your valour,
Your thanks shall be as dirt upon your casket,

A most ancient con job,
There is no glory in war.

We sit here together,
Face to face,
In our proudest visages,
Within this living room senate,
With representatives from previous events,
Our relations incredibly warm up until now,

This alliance of lovers has been jeopardized,
By an international incident of a tryst,
A war in the making,
Raised voices being the declarations of war,
Flying plates and glasses being the weapons,
There is no diplomatic immunity here,

Outside espionage is present of course,
Voices from foreign officials discolour negotiations,
Misled assumptions and false intelligence,
Each point of view comes to the stand,
To be voted down by our alliances knowledge,
No outside bribery of hugs and drinks shall suffice,

Our nations of heart belong together,
Our very own democracy must survive,
The final vote comes to love and trust,
We fought for this with our initial rebellion,
These negotiations shall continue at length,
Until we fall into one anothers arms again.

So our council of folly,
The hollow authority of our isle,
Open their mouths wide again for our daily rice,
Drenched in the sweat of labourers and nurses,
Taken as if it is their sacred right,
Our gratitude for their incompetence,

This old island is sick,
A blue scourge holds dominion,
Riddled with deaf worm-like things in suits,
With brown envelopes enveloped into their forms,
Finances put to foolish and wanton projects,
Folks held to ransom by foul ferrymen,

We weep at the tax office and county hall,
But those councilmen run out the back door cackling,
If the white cliffs begin to crumble,
And the foundations of our island splinter,
Will they still accept our sweat as thanks?

Every day I seem to witness,
With drawn eyes,
News stories that make me seethe,
Built-in inequality,
Bankers in the slaughterhouses of Wall Street,
Political duplicity,

Impotent old men upon the beaches of society,
Building sandcastles in imperial styles,
Houses of cards,
With sands of ground-up people,
Little voters at the bottom of the ladder,
Each spadeful shrieks in dissent,

The sands mount tall,
Kept strong on designs of grim architects,
The castles are patted down with manifesto lies,
The old men cheer as they rise,
When will the tide come,
And tear these foul empires down?

We bow to icons,
All of us,
They control us without our knowledge,
Symbols and portraits and likenesses,
Permeating influence over our cortices,

They’re shapeshifters you know,
They change to suit our ideals,
Or our vices,
Not necessarily malignant,
But still all-consuming,

To one man it could be a godful symbol,
Words from an invisible man,
Commanding words from the past,

The lady over there sees a dollar sign,
The path to prosperity,
The religion of finances and using,

This boy idolises his favourite star,
Tentatively forming a blueprint he wishes to follow,
An icon dictating his lifes path,

Another man looks up to the statue of his leader,
His eyes well with respect,
Even while his taxes rise,

These things are everywhere,
Inanimate perhaps,
But nevertheless powerful,
Billboards and cenotaphs and celebrities,
Icons hold an influence over us,
That rivals even deities.

Such childhood dreams I remember,
Of artwork and vividity,
Smiles were the way,
But then the conveyer belt fired up,
Careening me through a decided life,

It appears to this dreary soul,
That a lifes worth,
Such as it is,
Is merely based upon ones employment,
Dollar and stirling signs,

To contribute is just of course,
But life is not purely about what you can give,
In terms of finance,
We should follow Euphrosyne,
Not remain serfs to Plutus,

You are what you earn,
Does a bad back,
And a full pension,
Mean a life fulfilled?
Should respect be dependent on vocation?

We live to work,
And work to live,
But what about the end?
Will I too have to build my coffin?
Dig my own grave?

Each leader has a war chest,
Paid for with blood and limbs,
The gold of the chest,
Pounds and dollars and roubles,
Minted in hells flames,
Emblazoned with skulls grinning,
Baying for oil and miles,

The true fuel for warfare,
The ammunition of conflict,
As the chest opens its charnel maw,
Arms dealers rub their hands,
And children cry in droves,
The drool of the chest,
It looms over free lands,
And shadows of bombs fall soon after.

I’ve seen the elite,
A cartel of tuxedo players,
Vultures around a board held aloft by we the people,
They play monopoly above us,
Playing for borders and lives,
Among red buttons and whiskey,

An oligarchy of a smoking room,
Perfume of toxic fumes,
Product of industry,
A effluvium of poor mens moans,
Sounds of pickaxes and canaries,
Walls of blood diamonds,

The pieces are made of flesh,
Shaped like batons and warmachines,
And cry for help as they shift,
Beholden to old men,
Liars in chief,
Tycoons of trepidation,

They have played this boardgame for centuries,
From pyramids to railways,
From aeroplanes to the moon,
We have been pawns for too long,
What happens if we all stand up?
And knock their game over.