Dust settles on summer windowsills,
on sideboards TVs shimmer Churchill’s ghost
onto modern screens conjured plasma
realised through BJ’s studied bull-dog slump.
Right-wing masterminds, harness nostalgia,
declare war on liberty, compassion, freedom
with crazy, clownish grins and promised tax cuts.
In extreme heat, blood runs cold. Benighted
whispers escape Mogg’s elocution: the old/young/
beyond white rank and privilege will fail.
Terror unopposed, trashes lives beyond redemption –
yet in suffocated daylight, foul with fumes,
angry men mop their bows and mutter,
Give the BJ man a chance. Who knows?
Cometh the hour, cometh the man?
Beguiled by his brass-faced badness,
shameless mis-speech, they cling to bleached
colonial dreams, forget collateral nightmares.
Historians are hated, placed under house-arrest
banned from shedding quenching beams of light
into hell, onto our underworld’s smoking coals.
Young people with fresh eyes, call out BJ
and his crew, their coruscated sunshone lies.
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