Oh for a muse to tell our sodden tale,
a dreamscape to cheer the sorry traveller.
Poet, sing us corvid-chasing buses
clearing the outer suburbs, to vasty
fields under a white horse on that bald hill;
huddled victims, and middle managers
of the failing public sector, with their
PowerPoints due on some restructure.
I met the liberal on a frosty night, as the sky cracked and its clear moon exposed our frailties.
Have you read The Grand Inquisitor?
This its antithesis.
He gorged on suffering.
Grabbing a pinnacle (not Westminster, Faringdon Folly) – loftiness in destroying an individual.
‘Children stuffed up chimneys, not with sweets at Christmas pantos.’
‘Who do you think you are? celebrities weep at slave-owning ancestors.’
‘Degrees in Leisure Studies less deadly than tuberculosis.’
Chronicling a tragic dinner lady who lives with badgers and worships Ferrero Rocher, Hunter’s chicken, two-for-one meals at Harvester.
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