Contradictions let them stay

Don’t think to reason them away

They are our Meatloaf, heavy metal

They are our carving irons and kettle


Salute their nightlight bright obscurities

Adore their sagacious efficacious absurdities

Amours, allures, propellers of sweet life

Of a sharper blade than any Bowie knife


There on a ledge a pledge tiptoes peep over

Empty abyss, a single kiss, a hand picks clover,

An emblem reminder, a controversial wonder

Hallmark of hung conundrums we live under


Levelling out the polkadotty mottled surface

Of oddities does no person general service

Elated, grateful, let them feather, fly, display, and go

Happy in seeing, and thinking not to know


Your need for carbuncles rumpling head’s sunk inner tube

So as to fit up the factoids as a standard rule

A ready rough measure, support against extremity

And something to savour, delectate; pure vanity


So severs the helix lacerates its thread

So as to magnify crown an encephalic head

To stand upon perfect proofs apropos; albeit sped

On blurted certitudes


Too fulsomely tootyfruity to sustain recount;

Even the laid out surface of this circlet wound about

The gladsome globe itself returns as object and a ground

Of vol-au-vent temerity, grand surveys it confounds


College is power say know by rote affiliations

Sanity dwells in paradigm-design white coats

Shored on a sore assurance; pregnant learning floats

Like continents


Passing into and passing from is all, and all things flow

Cardboard Canutes stood sentinel, en guard would seemly trow

Being known as knowing like an elevated upstarts crow

Interrupters of the tides, or rather make the show


Here can be knowledge unforgiving, ineffaceable

Unfaceable although traceable to Eden’s mortal sin

Fear of the fire inspires desires for fatal instruments

Which fire, it sires, engenders


Know what we know is nothing; insignificance

Salted and peppered, trussed up with impediments

Placed so to baste amongst a stew, as savour added

To a flimsy dish of pickled fish, is also known as – you


When all the razz is over, a pooped pavolva, bimbo’s donkey derby done

When we agree, unanimously, absolute exception none

Then we shall see, and ubiquitously, no palaver, nor yet conundrum

Everything, and that what is true lives, everything, in The Son

The Russian Gas

Let’s trace the ‘function’ of the National News Media. In my estimation the National News Media can be treated of, in regard to its function, in one generalised sweep.

The question of function can be asked as the question: ‘What does it do?’

I want to make a case, and I think it a very sound case, for saying that the National News Media is doing at best a job of maintaining outlooks and bolstering a sense of solidarity of outlook and attitudes amongst the British peoples.

t worst I believe it is an ineffectual thing and mostly fatuous. For a person not engaged in its milieu, the melee, the morass of ‘current affairs’ and so for a being  who is not ‘following events’; that is to say, from an outsider’s perspective; the National News Media looks like this.

What is its character?

Current affairs and events, which are the bread and butter of all news media, by definition and intrinsically arise in the present and fall away in the present; and betweentimes they are news but beforehand of course, and especially afterwards they are not news; afterwards they are yesterday’s news; which proverbially nobody wants from a news media source.

It follows then that News presentations to the public are ‘rolling stories’ which break, peak, and fading diminish – in interest, in consideration, in newsworthiness.  Rather than this rolling news being like a planet which orbits around another heavenly body, and so brings in the seasons and night and day and a great number of other regularities, being events which repeat themselves and which repeat themselves always in the same sequence; instead Rolling News is like a Space Probe sent out from earth and has been set on a trajectory by which eventually it leaves the Solar System altogether and goes on, indefinitely, into ever new territory, ever signalling back to earth data which is new and novel to people here.

This ever-new territory is able to provide such continuous and unique data because of what we call time is ever-passing from the present into future-presents; and actual particular events arriving are thus ever new and novel, in fact their arrival into presence brings anew a flow of new presents into existence, bearing things not seen or heard of ever before.  I am speaking here about our common human experience of the uniqueness of being and of each our own life experiences in living a life. In this sense even returning seasons are new and novel; but only by virtue of them coming and presenting in slightly different manifestations year on year. The cycle of the seasons otherwise is predictable and expected to occur by us; so that a headline such as ‘We had little rain in July’ is not newsworthy.

The present is ever with us as an ever-being-realised future which is expiring. Thus time in this sense is linear, just as news is in our experience.

So as we have said, events are very difficult in fact to predict, and so they often take us by surprise and so they have a sensationalist value to them; and also because they are revelations to us of unsuspected things they have an attraction for us in no small amount based on a surreptitious and salacious inquisitiveness of appetite.

News in fact can become a habit; and people can become news junkies. The popular magazines which carry a degraded form of news make little pretence that they are about gossip and sensationalism and about having ‘peeps’ into people of interest’s living rooms and bedrooms etc. In this regard they are merely the News Media taken to a further level of habit.

Thus things come and go as news in a linear fashion. And people can become hooked, junkies of news stories. Especially so I believe those persons who present to us our news; the journalists and TV and Radio presenters and newsreaders etc are clearly near all of them mainlining on news and its discussion.

News presentation then is subject to hype; as if very often it was merely another form of dramatic entertainment. Think of the obsessive music which prefaces news bulletins each hour on BBC News Channel on TV. Its effect is cumulative and it draws in one’s attention ever more deeply as it goes on; and with that ticking clock counting down the seconds to O’clock, which is also on screen whilst this music is pulsing in one’s head; there can be little doubt that news is being treated as if it were drama.

Furthermore, at the hour a loud chime of Big Ben sounds, together with some ‘momentous’ drum thumps, as a newsreader reads out almost shouting, a headline before another great BOINGGG! and then drum thumps and the next headline read out.

Think of news stories being offered to you without all this rigmarole; no short clips of various flack jacketed reporters in war zones across the world; or in a flood somewhere or at an explosion elsewhere: what would we have left were there no hyped build ups? Not much.  Nothing much to write home about.

So the presentation feeds expectation, anticipation, excitement, drama, the whole shooting match of rhetoric is applied with some force.

Yet as we have said; all this rigmarole is for literally ‘a creature of a day’; that news story which is buzzing and hot right now but which within a week will be cold toast.

What is going on: how can a story be so vitally important one day and then a few days down the line dead news?

Why the fuss; why the earnest 24/7 dramatised presentations; where is the purpose in it all?

Further when a person considers soberly what he or she is able to do about any situation suddenly arisen as say a National crisis or a fearful disaster; apart from staying indoors whenever it is likely to be affecting people around the hometown?  As for quelling it or opposing it or doing anything to abate its course on one’s own; very little if anything can be achieved.

Also, given that many initial reports of such breaking news items of horrors are confused and scanty; their information not very reliable, such considerations compound one’s innate impotence to do anything constructive on one’s own.

News of some (not really too) bad weather last week here stripped the shops of sugar, milk and several other basic commodities. A few days below zero with some snow panicked a Nation into hoarding groceries and fuel etc.  In many ways it would have been better for the News channels not to have hyped this pretty tame pet rabbit weather, and everyone still got sugar in the tea and milk.

At the moment we have a story going through the mill being ground up into digestible matter the news about the Russians and the poisoning of ex spies by nerve gas exposures etc.  I have heard no evidence that Russia was responsible, other than it was a Russian nerve gas which was involved. Nothing, not a sausage other than this has been broadcast; yet to all intents and purposes no-one on the TV and in most of the nation doubts but the Russians did it.  Trial and conviction without jury; a metaphorical lynching

What appears to be happening with this story; and it is a commonplace occurrence with stories concerning government and outrages occurring on British sovereign soil; the focus of the story, which has ever been only hesitantly on the victims of the nerve gas, has now altogether shifted so as for it to be about the ‘outrage’ of the Russian’s audacity to have done such a thing on Sovereign British soil.  Like Lady Macbeth at King Duncan’s death being discovered, our Prime Minister and her cohorts are screaming loudly in concert as chief and first response ‘What, in our house!”

The furore going on is on the boil about Russia. It is necessary for the politicians the ruler governors that it goes on and is broadcast and written about across the nation as often as possible, for the time being. Its being bruited violently abroad like this is I do believe so as to be sheer ‘window dressings’  and as such all part and parcel of those drums thumping and that BOINGG! going on.  Like Shakespeare’s Hamlet the government is at ‘unpacking its heart like a whore’ by screaming ‘foul play in our backyard’ from the rooftops; and it feels it needs to be seen to be doing this by the British Nation. This is the government’s ‘adequate response’ to this fancied ‘outrage’.

This is a purpose the News Media serves; of showing the British peoples by way of arms waving in wild gesticulation, that the government is busy, is on the case, and governing.

It is not that almost embarrassing ‘ultimatum’ given by our government to Russia to ‘explain’; nor is it the kicking-out of 20 or more diplomats from the London Embassy and flown back to Russia; nor is it in fact the posturing and the fancy footwork and the dramatic role play and this rhetoric bandied about like sweeties at a kid’s party; none of this is important to Russia, nor to our government as an actual response towards Russia; but it is all done to be of purpose ‘smokes and mirrors’ for the benefit of home consumption.  It is all ‘retaliation being seen to be done’ by we British News freaks.

Such an approach secures the government its position as government in the eyes of the Nation. It also in large part is a handling of this affair by a government bankrupt of ability, and of measures to respond to Russia adequately, and of any daring or nerve to respond adequately, had a real response been possible.

It is, has been, will be conducted by government as it being a Perfect Storm – in a teacup.  The whole art of government in Britain now is descended into such shows and pageants; just as it has done so in USA.  I do believe that many people who have found themselves in government have no beliefs; I mean not beliefs in free markets or productivity – there’s far too much of that; but beliefs in life values, life goals, life purpose.

Thus they find themselves ‘like sheep gone astray’ and so they know that they are unable to formulate a proper a considered and adequate and effectual response or stance on these issues arising. In short they are floundering; and they feel and know that they are.

These beliefs are what our Nation is in lack of; hence its obsession with rolling news and rolling magazine gossip and rolling soaps and rolling reality shows; glued wholly to what is current and totally at sea with anything not ‘in vogue’.

In Britain these days one is not able to go to the toilet in a store facility without one having the store radio station throwing music at you and offering you bargains right now in store whilst you relieve yourself. So much do we demand and supply constant rubbish activity, and stuffs to pad out and so engage any stray consciousness we might use to raise a query about our lives. The scenario reminded me never so much of anything as it did of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, and of the prescience of Douglas Adams.

I do believe, us having no beliefs, we are afraid to allow the music to stop. for the music to stop would signify to us a Hawking-like Black Hole into which we fear falling.  Like Hawking’s Black Holes though; the fear and the event of falling are fictions we fear are truths

The situation is as though we had been transported to an island called the present; divorced from the past and separated from the future and we subsist in our minds solely and wholly in one single dimension of time’s three dimensions. No escape. Not enough education. Too much nurturing people to become entrepreneurs, or to become vocational professionals, or to be mere hands in factories and in service provision.

News media and current affairs as they are right now are atrociously ridiculous. Right now day after day Radio and TV presenters politicians and governors of Britain speak in public and daily are showing their inadequacy to hold their positions in life; by way of the historical and other factual goofs they make regularly, habitually; by their lack of grasp of fairly straightforward English language; by their ideas and suggestions put as means to solve social or political problems; their farrago of errors is in part shameful to be witness to, and also it feels sadly wry and embarrassing to think on what the rest of Europe thinks of us.

A silly pretty insignificant nation talking above its strength and unable to pull rank or to flex muscle. I am glad of this – I don’t support us warring with other nations, not as aggressors as we have done in the last 20 or 30 years.  I am glad God has taken away our capacity to destroy so wantonly – we abused our capacity.

I do believe our government believes it is governing by way of the furores it makes on foreign policy and other issues. In actuality its response times and its take up of issues of import and urgency and so which are actually really pressing, is appallingly poor and is badly at sixes and sevens.

The Russians are able to mock our government and our government’s responses, and able to do so with absolute knowledge and certainty of complete impunity.  Russia, if it is indeed responsible for the nerve gassing of people on British soil, has offended so many of us, but not for the callous cynical murders and attempted murders, no, only for its cheek and presumption in having done so.  Thus our petty and facile natures are exposed like public laundry.

Today’s Tragedy

Just heard a programme on TV speaking about Ancient Greece and interpreting the events, mostly of Athenian history of the 5th century BC through the lens of the, mostly Athenian, drama.

The airing of such a programme presented for its narrator academics an absolutely Golden Opportunity to train that same lens on political and social activity here in Britain (and in the USA) as it is muddling on right now today.

It was a BBC programme; and the BBC has a charge, a duty, not written down but yet more imperative than are mere words, laid upon it by its position as the State Natoinal Broadcaster funded by the people. This charge, this duty being the welfare of the people it serves, and who are the source of its funding and the audiences of its services.

The learned Classical scholars extolled with some gusto and an amount of vicarious pride the allowance of The Athenian State to its dramatists and to its people as a whole (the citizens that is) a liberty of very broad freedom of speech. The learned scholars were at pains to point out the ways in which Athenian dramatists used this freedom of speech so as openly and before the very persons aimed at, so to castigate and rigorously criticise them as politicians, and also the social trends, the fashions and the moods and the actions and decisions of the Demos (the Athenian citizens as a body).

There followed a great deal of broad Athenian history, beginning at the Persian Wars and running down to the Pelopennesian War; and as this history and the programme went along the dramas (which we today have surviving from that time and that place) were referred to and related to those events and actions and attitudes.

All very well.

Here was a bunch of scholarly persons commenting and expanding on, even extolling Greek life, and in particular lauding this openness of Athenian Society of that age, as seen in the Athenian drama and elsewhere; and this bunch of scholarly persons being a group paid, again from the public purse; educated by the State, paid for by the people (at least in large part), and who are holding secure prestigious positions of consderable remuneration and privilege; again all publically endowed upon them; and yet this group clearly ducked this very rare but clear chance to speak in more direct terms to the present and to its dreadful states of affairs in many areas of our society today, but perhaps most particularly in government.

Thus the message coming from this privileged bunch was, for those educated sufficiently to read it, that these scholars were going to be too cautious to rock the boat; too circumspect to put their principles and admirations on the line and so use them, just as they so admire the Ancient Athenians for having used them; in pursuit of castigating and holding to public account the utter shambles and the ignorance and interia and incapacity and heedlessnes, and much more, of our political people in power and in parliament, as they are behaving today right now, and in our daily affairs.

These not alone. The group of scholars might have considered when they discoursed knowingly about how one old Athenian playwright used his works to put before the people of Athens what are the terrible results and effects which redound upon their doers, of shabby and woolly thinking; of thoughtless animosity and callous brutalites, so that the scholars might have made it absolutely crystal clear to anyone watching their show that yes, we too are like as were the Athenians; quick to jump to condemn and to use force and so crush opposition; thoughtless and ill-reasoning beings; led by seductive (untruthful, muddled, cunningly contrived) arguments and down the garden path to a future waiting to rebuke and to chide us for our licencious follies. Just as were the Athenians rebuked and chided by their subsequent history once their sense of themselves had also overstepped the marks of justice and due consideration.

Very markedly this show on TV gingerly avoided any metaphysical background of the Greeks or the Athenians; all instances drawn from the drama were kept very firmily political, empirical, historical; as if these scholars were saying to their audiences that there is nothing of importance besides these material and empirical areas of investigation. This presentation of thought on British TV and Radio and also in our newspapers and in our discussion magaizines is the standard practice in these times; and by tacit agrement amongst those who would have it that they know about such things, any metaphysics is proscribed, usually considered by them to be irrelevant and for some strange reason, dangerous.

This show on Athenian drama then was merely folowing a commonplace status quo in regard to the scope of its subject matter; and also in its levels of real engagement to do good and so atempt by direct reference to improve things it was deliberately silent; and it shied away from any actual gracious mordant controversy or critique of ‘modern times’.

And so these scholars were as it were holding up the recovered treasures of Ancient Athenian life and showing them off to their publics and saying how wonderful they were; but then instead of distributing the knowledge of how to use them to advantage right now, and so maybe giving half-a-chance to our nation for it to pull itself out of this serious nose dive it is making into the ground of hard factual repercussions for delinquent behaviours; instead the treasures were wrapped up and put away by the guys and dolls into a study or a lecture room or a seminar in some place far remote from street life in Britain, from governance, simpy because: why?

Well, these guys and molls are just another part of the problem; they are of the opinion that the trajectory in which we are headed is AOK. Kick religion and metaphusics into touch; micromanage an under-educated mass of citizens; provide distractions; muddle through; etc etc all will be just dandy. What is it these guys and dolls are lacking then? Not intelligence perhaps, or foresight, or even discernment; but what?

I’ll tell you my opinion.

These people could have made a good deal of difference for good and they ducked it. They no doubt had seen these great posibilities but either tacitly and silently agreed together not to bring them to life; or else spoke about them and poohpoohed them, probably derided them. Not our business. Our business is to refer to remote times and to study them and have nothing to say on today’s disaster area called Britain.

As the Lord Jesus said: They ‘walked past on the other side’.

Their lack? That awareness of that very metaphysic to which they deny airtime and even refuse an acknowledgement of it existence. Their beliefs put them in a jail of incredulity, of presumption, of pride, of acceptance of things as they are; a kind of listless Beckett-like and Sartrean-type gloom and doldrums, which they recognise as being definitively the human condition.

The real villains of the piece are the values and the assumptions which come into place in lieu of the spiritual values which these sorts of persons utterly deny headroom to. What is there left, when one denies Christ or any and every realm beyond the mundane and sublunary, but these sordid statements; ‘Might is Right’ and ‘Eat, drink and be merry; for tomorrow we die’ and ‘Life is short brutish and nasty.’ and suchlike.

And to where does such currency lead but inevitably to a) nihilism and thereafter b) premiership of the self and one’s ego; and if I may make a Grand Statement: THIS IS ALL OUR TROUBLE.

Hence it makes aboslute sense in the world these scholars inhabit, not to go out on a limb and risk one’s career or one’s neck in a bold and generous essay to enlighten peole watching their programme. Instead audiences are getting a rareified and remote; wholy dissassociated acount of ancient history; like as though the public was in urgent need of being able to drive but was instead shoved in a back seat and strapped in. No windows to see through.

It makes absolute sense for these scholars to present their show in this way because there is for them, and in their opinion, no higher court than one’s own opinion and no higher good than one’s own welfare. Ipso facto QED.

And why do they think like this? Because they do not expose themselves to the beauty and truth and love and wholesomeness of the Lord as the gospels speak of him. His words and life are to these contemporary people, like as to so many of us right now, a closed book.

The Light of the World, The full and final Revelation of God; The Saviour; The Holy One; The Vine; The Water of Life; He who is so wonderful in what he has done for us and left for us to cling to as solace and hope and as guidance for life, to live it so as to be in accord with His will, in charity and sweetness and light, and in humility and due reasonable service: none of this is in their vocabularies, in the mentalities of these would-be knowing and assured mentors to the world.

Had they had and shown just a little sensitivity to our Lord’s life and teaching; maybe we should have been given a programme which actualy was worthwhile learning from?

Sunday Religion


I heard a woman speak and offer searching questions on

The radio today:

Why is it we exist; why are we here?

My spirit leapt; at last! A voice is primal-seeking

For substance-meaning, life-intentionality.

Ah, me,


This veritable she

Was perorating gravely on her business goals.

Thus it was Sunday listening; post-truth, and being broached

In gauche post-modern style, its unaccomplished mush

And so I thought to write you down this due consideration


Once would there be, and prompt and early, across the nation

A mighty chime to sound out nine, signing the Station

With solemn mind announces time to broadcast likely

Faith-elevated Doctors of considerable sorts,

Them shedding light in general


In those unheard of days, the audience house-trained, taught;

There was the Third, then there was Light, but with the Home

These trinity stopped work and rested on the Sabbath day.

A cornered market – no, in fact, there was no market


The time of Radio 1 and such had not yet come. The jolly pops

From dawn till dawn interminate did not prevail

An only lonely ghostly distant eerie young-like thing purturbed

At nights the waves with white noise, driftings in and out


Where gormless Horace Batchelor would his ruse, his rules purvey

Which guaranteed the gormless listener wins ‘the football pools’;

Another dated phantomesque phenomenon.

Hucks will remember Luxembourg, with squirming warm affection


Ah, simple days, the days when things were seemly sure

Less calculated, more ramshackle, done with much more feeling

The light bulbs dazzled had no shades, uneven ceilings

Slanted; we called it home


Soon was to come – a few years down the line, and yet

Some time before the BBC moves, and reneges to pop

A band of seaward privateers’ rave music; floating shops,

Airwaves with hoardings


These gondoliers at sea (in following money) interposed

Anchored offshore in creaking scrapyard dhous regaling loudly

Daily to local audiences, peppered ads in pandemonium

Of jaunty raunchy music; throngs adored them, heartwards moored them


To first choice to be tuned-to, to hear new emergent singles.

Profuse a BBC bruised haemorrhaged listeners; siren-lures

Having the nation swept from its stalwart standard stuff

And soon by mainforce called, a rapid radio rethink urged


Note the nice art, a canny sort pushed primal force for change

Blithely had gamed things so to go unnamed, indeed had feigned

Had made this phrase: ‘youth-culture, its permissive revolution’;

To overshadow business breaking bad on Redifusion


In fiftysix or seven ITV first breathed, phoned home,

A television channel off the leash, no statesman’s watchdog

Its scheme brought in commercial funds, a copious subsistence

From trifling fancies dressed up nice; mass advertisements


Hot driving seat in living rooms from Bath to Berwick

An instant life change broached from Roche to Lerwick

Its upstart god sprung fully-armed from out the head of commerce

Nor else to be rehoused


Alas, beforehand hegemony made Beeb a sole provider

Customer satisfaction not invented, thus allowed their call,

The scatter of the schedules, broadcast platters of the day,

And people sat and watched or listened, whiled tediums away


Thus Sundays stood yet honoured not in breach but

The observance; and manners, kind polite consideration

Were sweet survivors, the empiric strength of British passions

In great measure respect the essential cue to do religion


Observe commerce was actual nurse and agent blaring boombox

Of overwhelming hectic musics, TV hogmanays

Danced every day from dawn to dusk in civic roundelay

With candied added value:


Broad brags of trade marks cauterise brand listeners’ brains

‘Take anything you want’ said fair concupiscent refrains

Regular as like taxes, death, their come-ons kept on coming

Filing the ears with reared desires: Get ideal homes NOW: Stunning!


And fancy goods, new plastics, Addis, entroviaform,

A world was being opened, prised, by manufactured toys

Jingles in peoples’ hearts were playing on their serial sighs

Releasing passions’ fires, desires; their inmost lurid demons


The thing took off, in avalanche took over common reasons

Ballooned a topsy-turvey land inperative pretension

And expectation, air-castles of dissociation throned

Lusts’ musts above one’s income


These then the borders reivers, buccaneers of creeded hearts

When seeded billion pollens, wrung de gustibus contortions

Astute extortions brash supplanted widespread graced decorum

Allowing kowtow


And crazy chaos, craven customer solicitations

Eliciting by effect ‘anything goes’; and so a rose

By any other name called freedom, stole by traction

In, and brought in faction, leading license by the nose.


The shops, the pops, the over-shoulder hanging locks

Stores, supermarkets, cash and carrys overflows of boose

Open all day, all you can eat, the bottomless coffee cup;

Excess’s palatial wisdom missed its mark, gave us the slip


Instead was bred overplus great furror for ‘one’s inspiration’

And reverend ‘creativity’ the ‘arts and stuff’; the fashion

A renaissance heralded, foreclosed, indulged, poetics

The world, alack, expressed themselves, purloined their fifteen minutes


The planet heard, was vitalised, began monetise our visits

First Spain and The Ballaerics, Greece; ..ah, no, not Aquitaine

Too near, expensive, Aquitaine, set on a merry plane

To Spain we bundled money down its main proverbial drain


Yearly our peregrinations made fast-forward hyper-gains

(Do note my use of idiom; selling fervent latest names

Of cool consumerism; branding-led entcements’ party games

Deck out the passage)


The forward destinations exponentially now ranged

And Florida becomes passē, Antarctic’s silent waste

Or Andean Cordillera give rough remote terrains

In our visions high momentous hove such epic paradigms


Backdrops on which to paint our ‘there’s no limits’ frenzied faze

There are two a penny cruises, let’s process in two by two

Along with psychic holidays from (being my contention)

Comensurate engagement with a ravaged state of things


Our grand New Zealand visit, ah, of course, Lord of the Rings,

And Mechico, Tequilla, drug cartels meet murderers

Safe gated mansions, herded in, with shopping malls hereto

We tour the goldfish bowl!


Our living packaged, plasticised, and fibre enervate

Clinically sanitised of course, aesthetically authentic

Swimming in a la carte we glide from furthest shore to shore

Expecting and perplexing, ever self-assured


Soul-lowly hungry Olivers thrust begging bowls out candid

Niggardly tourist passers-by go rogue in togs top-branded

Suffer few coppers flung among, their greasy palms to blandish;

Fairweather Pharisees


Meantime on British shores perpetual marketplaces bulge

Malls pouring through rude customers, cram brimming overstocks,

Ultra-production’s super-saturated sponge in groundswell

Proliferates abounding


A risen surge, such malls had prised an open chink with fists

Which riven, and given early to ITV; pop radio;

Wore flaws, applause a nation roared, so coursed a holy cause:



Its ecumenical secular soaring ubiquity

Gave global wayside shrines, set up with icons brave

And running mad disciples pilgrimaging clustered brawls

Regaling spoiled resources


Surreal: in serial, social, mayhem earth’s resources hauled

Into the trash pond grandly in a throwaway mad mode

Aeons of decades dump waste refuse into lifeblood seas

The wealth of earth attainted unashamedly


Anon along with mirth a ton of cursive dispossession

Alike been squandered, laundered, on our sunny jamboree

Has hit the deck, or rafters, like last chance saloon bartenders;

Our Sunday suits got crumpled


Like those machines which gobble up our splendid fumefree cars

Issue their metal boxes, crushed, a mess, like our lame days

Comfort confines us likewise, then next straight we goes our ways

Into a wooden casket


Sundays were freed, unfettered, but their term dreadfully dull

Suddenly all distraction ceased, fell great industrial rest

Everything closed except for Church, from Aldershot to Hull

Time’s nomads stranded


Argives becalmed on shores awaiting embarkation winds

Feeling delay right heavy, waiting weighing spirits down

Nonetheless drear ennui its patent wholesome scourge effected

And rebel sorts considered


Clash of the Titans pitches held no teleported sway

Cash of the Raybans hovered still some six decades away

Nor a collateral clatter broke alarmingly each day

We turn our calendars


Enstamped another senior mode was franked by gratitude

A harbour-bar prospective shimmered elsewhere, lit horizons

Death strewed a light, and Sunday silence plumbed it sounding

Impromptu on it


Unwelcome day then Sunday, empathised as death companion

Locus The Church itself bore faithfully among its grounds

Sunday then, messenger, brought bad news conscious foremost –

So shoot it down


Foster palava, drown with sentient onboard raid incursions

Throw out Messiah with His Sea of Gallilee

Go expurgate life, then instate insatiate yens elsewhere;

This chair?


Footware? Or drive-by shooting holiday? Have an affair?

All the regalia paraphernalia whose hallmark flogs obsession

Possessions and acquisitions told in Legion manifest

Contestants for this turf are manifestly extreme unction


Knockabout, throwitout, no tomorrow Saturnalias

Daily shillelaghs, accordions, ukeleles, ceilids

Noise for the boys, twirled parasoles for girls;

Meanwhile real-life sore wars bankroll a planet


Incident days come in and bearing brandished urgent colour

Manic swing flashing lights, slip-tags bright messages on fastenings

Chucking delights at acolytes excited like hyped children;

Kind winning voices


Selling, extolling, excelled in cultivation, going maundering

On strolls inconsequential; absence strewed amongst the lilac fields

Soft-scented fined imaginings wind a pungent garland;

Comatose, and you feel a million dollars


Everyone’s up for everything in this vaunted pastoral

Golddiggers, action-figures, up for millionnaires

Impudence streaming, passes round the sweatmeat cream eclairs

Groomed for impugning


The actuality of solid matter-of-fact:

Oh, what a tawdry world we live in – what we make of it

Make stinking-fish of religion, and then attribute its doors

With wars, destructions, drop it in the junk room


Pass it away, inter it. Dance, devour life’s action, serve it!

Putting away oneself, one’s best election promise

Out of a wassail bowl pour off full stoup of tribulation

Raise up your knees


Let’s all go round and round in hula-hula stupor schmooze

Hopelessly thinking nothing, nothing thinking stands to lose

Carving up glories of the earth, a theme park run amuck

There’s naught religion gives us matters like the monster truck


Our ends are all economic, money matters satistify

Easing this nightmare whisper, a carpet lifting on the stair

As wanton winds make an entry, send up loathsome chilly air

Caught on the chest, come contrary, appalling Bacchic cheer


A session of concession gives respite, prorogues the day

Semesters thence forthcoming find despite another way

Scattered with thorns laid acrid bare, embraced and laced with tears

Harbinger confirmation, evidence to all your fears


Passing on rotten batons, futures going to unfulfilling

Hear resonate in backwoods ungent anastasia trilling

Is it a demon, does it bode contrition, something billing?

Acute Salvation


Takes up your arm, salutes you, illywhacker; able willing

To take a side, and know the side you take’s the winning

Because provides a gift of love forever; forever-forgiving; thrilling!

The Lord, The Lord, is lowly.

We Shall be Known Hereafter

We shall be known hereafter, dreadful breakers, mayhem makers,

Overreaches, overtakers

In the groove of stalking planet earth, like skulking leather predators

Hoving around, moved to compound, its goodly sphere; abandon’s devastators

Nothing revered, no, nothing, nothing holy


Everything lowly, commonplace, trips trifling en passant

Whisks in that famous fifteen minutes glibly mildly away

As everyone’s gift-wrapped peep, attention-span


An age in which the niggards think themselves The Man

In their private hearts, whose glittering parts are contraband

Ending in the can


Takers of too, too, much, exploiting several, all the futures

Of heritage, and this the now; a ransacked trade resource

Ruled open-season


Beyond good reason

We do not even feed our have-nots gracefully. Some go

Without, but others, they get gouts, and blow out elephantine.

Scoop up stout


Bland stoups of goodies ever filling waste-bin hoppers

With oddities, sprayed shocking pink potatoes, pull in spent out shoppers;

As clods of clay in Africay go gnawing husk; remainders


Our rotten fruits demonstratively shall declare our works

We cannot, dare not open-up ourselves, summon compassion

That way bare weakness lies, brings down on us derision


Believes our vision: prisoners of our own defaults; and pinioned

By told opinion, sold, given over, to the venal self

To the shops, the sex, the holidays, those weirdo neoprenes


As like to our strewed litter do we dissipate our days

Clogging the oceans, landscapes, on the beaches centre-stage

Unsightly rolls; death-warrants sealing our touch curse


Work prophesies, betoken nudges, jog contingency

Into profusion here and now; the rest’s content illusion

Ecology can cope, we like to soap, the systems stand robust;



Confusions in our brains effect us not see it

Blown inwardly, scope fails upon what staggers there

Our constant holiday thingy spins-out desert-island enclosures

Refuses to avail us


Assailed by tropes, hysteria, clung to common iron idols

Pining in our delights, our slight identities depend

On pay-for-later raptors, brokers ineffectually sure-

Shot smoothers-over, sink us into shifting sands


Ours are the Emperor’s New Clothes, cataleptic Never Lands;

Feed troves of catastrophic fineries and pokey trinkets;

Cursed and nursed, cajoled, conflated


Badlands are plagued by harbingers of famines, forced pretensions

All expectations turn round straight to consternation; dagger

Our pomp whenever chequered weathers wester, interposing,

And can’t deliver


We have no sense; no tense or tenor, scope or common context

Our days are centrifuged along a winners-take-all vortex

Self-made, are wreckers, wrecked by thinking haughty creeds


Our palisades no longer stand, lie garbaged on the ground

Onetime on these was hung our stout assurance, aegis old

Now rudely we make shelter makeshift, huddled in a fold:

Behold society!


Cliquing together, thronging destitutes en mass

Uncritical, unconstrained, we place disaster at the door,

Raise warzones of our own, admit them supplement hard nature,

Bearing with their continuance, ponder no comeuppance


Wrecks we’ve wreaked on ourselves, the savagers of Gaia

Too derelict and cowardly gladly shunning homely fact

Cover ups cowl us cowering; misbehaviour under cloaks

Denies it all


Unwilling of a remedy, couched comfortably in languish

Pained at the pitch of heaving seas fobbed offloads of our trash

Oceans of plastics, magnitudes of wastrel wandering gulag:



All ours, to those who come, engenders death

Backlogs from generations, those who skulk in disregard

Abrupt a curse of nemesis cascades in avalanche

Of maelstrom legacy


Lost to ourselves; ourselves have lost the noble highway,

Lo, we did think to handle, angle, wrangle, for ourselves

Instate a twopenny takeover despoiling nature’s groves

We two-bit hustlers


Backs to the future, faces to marketplaces,

Solidly going-alone on autocratic power thrones

Stones become gold return again slowly to lowly stones

Wash-up fordone washed-up on sterile shores


Thinking to think containment over nature seized

By purse we capture worlds that we secure allures delights

Yet something is greater here than ransomed infrastructures:

It is our humble Lord


On earth is he heritor, provident cosmic stakeholder

Investor invested, dressed in bleeding tender charis

Whom by us never should have been rebuked, nor crossed, forsaken

Wonderful Counsellor, pastor-protector, dear directing hand