Friday Morning

The awful daring of a moment’s surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract”
il miglior fabbro

Days from midsummer
And the endless nights kick in
We can’t meet eyes
Horror implied by illusion
And jokes from the scaffold

We pour over Yeats
As if it was a legal document
And treat legal documents
Like Yeats
Scouring the space between the lines
As if it was hope
Seen from a barred window

In the garden I am taming the crows
Fragments of crust
Picked by timid beak
As a flourish of chopsticks

What we know is ruptured
For the sake of an ugly word
Or a pretty noise

And hail the revolution
And the potholes won’t be filled
And two cheers for democracy
And they turn the seats around
And here’s to independence
And leave your leave to remain

If you like it so much
Why don’t you live there
Except you can’t really
Do that so easily
Any more

June rain lashes
The sadder streets
This Friday
Mourning has broken

The crows are stoical
The same tap and seek
The hacking croak

On Mount Olympus
They are clearing the decks

Seven years of broken mirrors
Cruel fragments of glass
In eyes and hearts
That savlon, kisses,
Tweezers or tears can’t fix
To spell out eternity
On floor of ice
And break the spell!

And time still passes
Coffee still pours
Headlines a crude gargle
And thinkpieces
To alleviate the burden of thinking
Ordered disorder
And arguments with avatars
These too were beautiful names

Words like clods of earth round uprooted plants
Your muse, dumbstruck and weeping in Kew Gardens
Scald scald scald
The fear is the worst part
How dare you?
The fear and righteous anger
How bloody dare you?
(but the fear is worst)
Not You the People
(but yes in a way
you the people)
But You, the Specific People
Who thought this was a good idea
Cranked the clockwork to breaking point
Rickety wheels ungreased since the seventies
This is your shambling monster
Assailant on ice-clad steppe
Victory bitter in no-one’s teeth
Resignations without schadenfreude

The best and the worst are conjoined
In handwringing
And backstabbing
At the expense of the crowd

Optimists and royalists
Invoke the Queen
To restore order
Or hang Farage
Whichever is the sooner
We jest
But we’re already on
The bullet-riddled
Upside-down-from-a-lamp-post path

And no-one to say
Listen to me
I have a plan
None but grizzled men
Torn from allotment by circumstance
To weigh the world in their hands

To court,
Unsuited, un-suited
The flat white hope
Skinny latte hope

Hope smeared like poster paint
Where other four letter words are daubed
Hope coupled in anger and

And perhaps
We’re living in an alternative plotline
A future where
Farage survived the plane crash
On election morning
Twenty Ten

And perhaps
This is what the agents from the future
Were sent back to prevent
Before Twenty Twenty Three
Became a reality
Something’s up with the timelines
(a spark crackles
the connection’s gone)

The land is sick
No silver bullet
No time travel
No best of three

Fishing for continents
Shall we at least set our lands in order?

London Bridge is falling down
falling down
falling down


This is a bit different from what I usually tend to write. And I think it’ll perpetually remain in this state of ‘first draft’. It’s an attempt to encapsulate the angry empty hopelessness that overwhelmed me on that Friday Morning and the terrible weeks that followed, without breaking down entirely or drowning myself in Eliot. I wish it was funnier, but there’s not a huge amount to laugh about at the moment. And that is that. The end.

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