A message to the Good People of England

Good day to you all. We are on the verge of something momentous. May, has called an election, and it is time to be heard.

This is no joke, nor is it just high-falutin rhetoric. The time really, really is now. We stand on the cusp of a golden opportunity: a chance to reverse the destructive ravages of Brexit, to make England the nation it aught to be.

For a brief time, before power went to his head, life under Blair was really rather good, for many. Life under May, has been hell. The disadvantaged are squeezed and crushed almost out of existence, and the national narrative blurted by the BBC is inward-thinking and egotistical. Even the moderately wealthy, those who own property, are squeezed tighter and tighter. Only the ruling classes, in Britain, do well.

Now don’t mistake me, I’m not saying we should think of everyone else when we vote on the 8th of June. Far from it. I’m saying we should think about the people actually, physically here, in England.

Which is why the younger voters, are crucial. We let ourselves down in the referendum: the youthful English voice chose the stiff upper lip of its elders. Nonsense. Silence in the face of oppression is not British, it is not brave, it is conformity and cowardice.

So when you see, in the coming months, the promises of the Tories, remember, these are people whose hands are truly soaked in blood: the blood of children, the homeless, the elderly and the poor. Aye, some of you, like me, will have little respect for ‘the poor’ because many of them put themselves in their situation (through drink, drugs, so forth.) So forget about them and think about the hardworking.

To our elders who voted Leave, I say this. Did you imagine we would be faced with a sixty billion pound bill for leaving the EU? Did you really want to put that on the shoulders of your children, and grandchildren? I know you are not so callous.

Of course you didn’t, for you are good people. You chose what you thought would grant us the economic freedoms to adapt and evolve but which, on balance, will see us restricted, isolated, and cast out.

So on the 8th of June, don’t vote Conservative. Don’t keep things the same. Don’t let the downhill slide continue. Let’s turn it around. Britain deserve to bloom, and May’s dead government shall be the compost.

Don’t Pay Your Servants

That is what they are, right? Politicians in a democracy, I mean. They are supposed to be the servants of the general public. Well, largely, I have seen them serve themselves. In my short lifetime I’ve seen Blair, Cameron and now May make a brilliant effort of running Britain in economic and social terms towards a conflagration of ancient Athens proportions.

But what is the fuel for this metaphorical fire? One of the fuels, is their money.

According to old data from parliament.uk, politicians get paid somewhere around seventy-five thousand pounds a year. I wrote that out long hand because its a long damn number. 75k, for doing, what precisely? Oh and that’s entirely seperate from paying their staff, or any of the other long list of things for which they can effectively steal money straight from the taxpayer. IPSA, the body apparently responsible for monitoring MP expenses, has not worked. But, at least the media is able to catch hold of stories like this one.

Let me suggest an alternative, then. Don’t pay them. Whisk that extravagant 75k a year away and replace it with the same expenses form they have to use to pay their staff. Let them explain their purchases to the people. Personal privacy in this country is damned anyway, the final nail in its coffin being the Investigatory Powers Act (go look, it lets them keep your internet history, with no other reason than they want to) so lets make sure the damnation is evenly split. Let’s make sure May and friends are accountable to us. Take away their private money. Servants of the public have no  right to privacy, if their public don’t either.

Crack open parliament. I’m certain we’ll see the roaches scatter.

 

 

Daily Prompt: Calm: Open Letter to the World

Dear World,

A status quo. Stagnant water. A sterile dish. A society just going through the motions. All of these are calm, and at least two of them are dead, or unappealing to life. But ‘Calm’ isn’t the problem, it’s stasis. Let me show you.

An elephant on the long walk to water. A jogger, out for their morning run, or Gorillas grooming. All alive, all activities driven by purpose, desire and movement, and all as serene as the swan appears to be. Sure the runner gets hot and sweaty, the elephant thirsty and the Gorilla, bored, but there is calm in repetitive, necessary activities. Unneccessary repetition becomes maddening, maddening, maddening, maddening, maddening maddeningmaddening you get the idea.

So over the festive period, when you are sat still, brooding over debts and decorations, think of that elephant in its long, steady plod. Maybe even admit you admire that bloke or lady that runs past your house every morning.

Stasis brings a destructive calm, the inertia of the corpse. Stable movement, motion, even if only of mind, grants one creative, productive calm. Remember this, and use it.

much love,
The Whisperer

via Daily Prompt: Calm

The Word Is Holy

I sit here
staring my demons in the face
pandemonium’s hordes
crawling ever towards
my face
over my dreams these dark things drool and hiss-
threatening to feast and
inside my head nothing leave-
So-I-panic writing faster-
copying quicker-
editing-swifter-till-comes-a-moment
when it all stops,
listen
go Slowly now
slowly,
the word is holy,
study my church
writing my prayer
solely,
because the word is holy.
the word is
communication
the word, das worde, whatever language or nature or time or place it is the word
the link
that’s,
holy.
The link
in the brain made by words and words alone, words we share a thousand times in a thousand ways in all our days relays
replays and
remakes the links of our ancestors anew
binding us,
uniting us, inspiring us to communicate in ways that drive us onward but,
still,
Left right
Black White
Man Nature
Angels Demons
Devils Gods
binary categories,
inadequate describers
on repeat still defeat the  goal of the species to communicate is to unite
write
dance
Paint
Draw
make Art
be a part
of This World
our world
our society woven
through Words.

Real Things

Money’s not a real thing
nor flesh
or steel
or stones in golden settings ablaze with light
cast from lanterns or lightbulbs, unreal
these things,
transient,
temporary, passing arrangements only
moments in a melody beyond mortal man’s knowing
one made of vibrations on flowing threads
of the one single real thing energy.
Energy is effort
devotion to grow
an art or a passion or a person
its how we know
nurture from harm
pleasure from pain
sense from stupidity
healing from hurt
real things, energy, help it flow,
grow
and learn.

A Celebration of Sir Lee

A voice
a face,
a talent,
amazed
from Hammer’s coffin
to New Line’s second Tower
on the screen, as a man, or a voice
he had power.
power grand,  power deep, power darkly unique
rings in a voice
that shall never know sleep
on uncounted screens, in uncounted dreams
speaks this knightly man,
whose many songs and many films on all art’s tiers stand.

Courageous and courteous
commanding and kind
Lee knew true suffering
and the value of life
as an Officer, a gentleman, as an actor, a leader
audiences needed him everywhere to lead them-
via mock darkness and horror, villainy and terror
to something higher something lighter something warmer, something brighter.

Farewell Sir Christopher Frank Carandini Lee,
singer
soldier
swordsmaster
actor supreme
your impact was massive
you’re in a thousand dreams,
ars longa, vita brevis
your art was your life
vale magnum, Sir Lee,
grand actor Knight.

latin translations: ars longa, vita brevis =art endures, life is short. Vale magnum= farewell, great one.

Get A Grip

Get a grip,
I’m told
on this
mindless, conformity bar
iron brittle and sharp
running red with blood revolution’s start-
get a grip,
keep the shape,
tow the line
obey the state, without question-
or query or contrary thought to lessen-
your grip,
on sanity apathy’s bar
keeping you from whirling
in changes current, hurling
people and places down progress’s rocky stream
towards the future so-
get a grip, stay right where you are
or let it slip lose yourself, cling not to the past.

childbirth discussion at the dinner table

How things rip, how things tear
how many stitches were needed, where

“Evening.” Said she, cold as ice.

“Bonjour, mon amour.” Replied Solomon with a smile that sailed across the open-plan kitchen dining area to fall dead at Angelique’s feet.

“Words of a poet, wallet of a pauper.” She retorted, languid and dis-interested. Solomon persisted though.

“Now, that’s hardly true, is it?” He murmured, flicking on the kettle and reaching for the camomile (Jonah’s reccomendation, he’d have taken coffee any day.) Ange just sniffed, curled herself with feline nonchalance onto the couch and grabbed up the paper. Their lounge-diner was a fine thing, built up in fiery days of passion and love. A couch divide the room neatly between the cellar door and the main hall of the house. All was warm and solid woods, the tones of the walls selected by his wife (notorious in her youth for an artistic flair.)

The Christian God likes lamb,
of halal death Allah’s a fan
blood for bloody gods of the sand
legends born in a  desert land.

Dedicate devote yourself, serve thine master
adhere to ancient tales, each with their own disaster
faster!
People, read on, wake up, look up soon
be alerted you who speak of Thor, or dance beneath the moon.

Earth’s boons are bountiful, beautiful and rich
beware benignly reverent ritual, ’twill develop a glitch
as from faith unto blind religion one’s practices will switch
then pitch,
all belief
all purified intent
off the cliffs of carelessness,
when the moment’s power is spent.