Better stars
are on the way:
The ones we
have are useless.
Their
journey, so we are told,
Has been too
long, more than millions of light years.
The ones we
have are almost all burnt out;
They flicker
and fade away with the seasons.
But now we
await the advent of some bright
And solid
constellations, pictures and all,
With new
images and exciting stories.
I only wish
a few of the old ones would stay,
Familiar and
comforting, like well-worn pillows on a bed,
So that my
favourite memories will be always there,
Of people
long since gone, and shadows of love.
Better,
brighter, I am not so sure. Take your time.
*****
The chosen
one has left us with no choice.
We listen in
the stilly desert dark for a voice.
The welkin
sags from a thousand pricks of light
And stifles
us with stardust through the night.
Instead of
choirs of baby angels and
The organ
tones of thunder, there are sand
Storms
blowing out of the North and South,
Hyenas
howling, and out of every mouth,
Responsive
squeaks and squalls of bats—ayah!
While the
jungles burn in Amazonia
And forests
smoke across the Arctic zone,
The neronic
fiddler says He’s the guy, the one
And only
saviour of the world, bigly-bigly-boo.
There is no
choice but vanish, perish in the poo.
*****
Once he flew
to Biaritz to meet
Another
Boorish leader, and an accent
Mark, and it
was a dog’s breakfast, meat
Regurgitated,
veges rotted and sent
Back for
reconsideration. I know the beach,
The
shuttered windows, the Atlantic storms,
For we met
with a couple who would teach
About the Résistance,
and their love still warms
Our hearts.
Now the places are polluted
Where the
liars and the news fakirs sat,
And we can
only hope the wild cold winds have uprooted
The ugly
remnants of their Brexit and shat
Them into
oblivion across the seas, so when
He wings his
way back to his moated-castle,
And himself
skids into his oval-offal pen,
And the
diacritic slash has no diarrhoea or hassle,
The window
sash will rattle and tell us we are safe.
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