Stammer
I didn’t, you see? And I don’t
think many did.
Oh, I put the cross,
prayed for a loss,
the omens looking good.
But, truth told,
I preferred the one who
was older, smeared
anti-semite when
Who knows? At the airport
I met by chance
a journalist, Al Jazeera:
he was British, too.
Told me he’d led your lot
on a merry dance,
removed the whip once his
back was striped,
he was just a launch pad;
you took flight.
And he stood for
something, anything,
not just a stammer between
that, this
and someday, one-day. It
was with a yawn
I picked up and used the
stubby pencil,
examined options, licked
its graphite tip,
tossing the pollster
outside an ironic quip,
after slipping a quick one
into the box.
Most of us are
underwhelmed, I think,
a sort of ennui, a lack of
joy in repetition,
you don’t strike hard as
someone with mission
in motion, or emotion, even - lacking fire;
I heard you said politics is a force for good
with all the conviction of
a block of wood.
A landslide built on
quicksand foundations:
the alternatives were just
worse, is all,
like oily stagnant pools
on brownfield sites
with sickly sweet scents
of terminal decline,
for now, a sandcastle
majority will do us fine,
after covid, boozegate,
Brexit and austerity,
made möbius strips out of roads to prosperity
and all the railways
permanently on strike,
will the last person to
leave turn out the light?
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