Which Pill?

It is with deep regret

And no small measure of embarrassment

That I stand before you, here, today

I’d really rather be all on my own

But the niceties, we know, must be obeyed

And so, with pressure, here, I must atone

 

It is with deep regret

And no small measure of rage

That I come before the people of this land

I’d really rather eat my own two shoes

But, the niceties, and colleagues’ daggers at my back

Have told me that I have to or they lose

 

So, it is with deep regret

And no small measure of humiliated self-defeat

That I work up something of a spit

I’d really rather gob right in your face

But, the niceties, and the plebs I swore to serve

Have hounded me and I have lost the race

 

It is with deep regret

And no small measure of choking pride

That I curse the day you found me out

I’d really rather you’d stayed in the dark

But the niceties, and a press that changed their tune

Have forced me to admit I’m not the brightest spark

 

So, it is with deep regret

And no small measure of unwillingness

I leave behind the steps of Downing Street

I’d really rather keep the role I played

But the niceties, and loyalty, are not what they once were

They’re calling me a pill, the hapless, hard-to-swallow Theresa May

 

It is with deep regret

And no small measure of wanton disregard

I’ve divided, more, the countries of this land

I’d really rather, that, you all forgot

But the niceties, for it is not self-awareness

Are insisting that I say that I’ve been caught

 

It is without regret

And no small measure of utter stupidity

That I’m holding on to power

I’d really rather you all just agreed

For the niceties, and careerists, can go hang

I retract, with no regrets, every word that I’ve just said

 

It is with deep regret

And no small measure of frustration

That we, the people, all must live the pill

We’d really like to dose it out to them

For the niceties and those who splurt the lies

Are culpable, and worse, they know no shame

(source)

(S)praying For The Country

Dear God,

Well, that was exciting, wasn’t it?
I haven’t had so much excitement since I was a but a child and that big, burly farmer bellowed at me to, ‘Get the fuck out of my wheat field, ya wee bastard!’
Peed my pants that day, I can tell you. Gave a whole new meaning to crop spraying.

And that fellow was so out of order. It was, after all, a devil-may-care moment, shared, I’m sure, by all normal children from time to time.
Honestly, who hasn’t, in the flush of exuberant youth, cast off the yoke of obedience, thrown caution to the wind and trespassed on someone else’s property? I like to think of it as my ‘Buckfast in the park’ moment. Pissed, at least, in one sense of the word. Har, de, har, har!
Such japes.

I should, of course, have left those days behind for good and followed daddy’s advice. ‘Be a good girl.’
Such wise words.
He was quite the sage, you know. Well, you would know.
I learned so much from him.
Although he did have the unfortunate habit of speaking in cliches.
Ah, but he was so strong and stable.
And I did take his advice.
I was as good as good can be.
But, Jesus wept, (my bad), it was so boring.

People used to look at me like I was some sort of robot. Always doing as I was supposed to do. ‘Tess the Tame’, I once overheard someone whisper. Well that, and ‘Little Miss Pee-Your-Pants’.
Can’t trust anyone to keep a secret, I’ve found to my cost.

I suppose I just had to rebel at some point.
I’ve practised quietly for years.
Doing little things here and there, you know.
Never accept a court judgement.
Make stubbornness an art form.
Under no circumstances, give in. Except sometimes. Stamp a metaphorical foot in the recesses of your mind.
Curse them all. ‘Ya cunts, I’ll have you, one day!’
So liberating. In a mental, internalised, repressed sort of way.

And another wheat field day arrived.

How I longed to relive that glorious, carefree day. Without the final flood.

I felt sure, this time, that I would get away with it. I was sure I had the farmers and everyone else on side. I had practised speaking naturally till I had it almost off pat.

I had traipsed all over the country, talking to a few people in barns and the like. What is it with me with farms and isolation? Might need to work on that too.
I had even, as one does, practised, to the mirror, keeping my face composed at all times, so that no one, no, not even daddy, would know what I was thinking. All those, ‘fuck off ya trumpet’ thoughts were so well contained, apart from the odd twitch of my lips when I almost came right out and said it.
‘It’s my party now! I’m in charge! I’m head girl! Getyersel’ tae yer ain wheatfield!’
I had it all carefully organised.

And then I peed my pants again.

Thank god for Tena Lady.
I have shares in them, you know.
Always be prepared.

And now that corn-coloured, flop-haired saboteur is on his bike again, working up what passes for a sweat in the crack of his arse.
Waiting in the wings. Ready to steal my thunder. Undermining me at every turn. I don’t need his help for that. I can do things by myself. I have words. And stuff.

I’ve always been a loner, though.

Didn’t do naughty till that day, back then.
The shame of it haunts me still.

I’m not saying I’m going to flip. That would be so middle-class. And daddy wouldn’t have approved.

But, I swear to god, if I hear one mention of ‘pishing it’, I’ll sell my shares in Tena Lady and spray this country from Land’s End to John O’ Groats.

And, with the wind in the right direction, so, help me, Ireland will taste my piss.

I will be remembered as the biggest piss artist of all time.

Got to be remembered for something, after all.

Amen.

(source)

Pour With Pride

washes clean

refills

by drops

each puddle

overflows with effort

teems and soars

tracks its route

in streets

on pavements

pathways

arrives

at every tap

at every door

fills from mountains

hails from every cloudburst

spirit of survival

reigns supreme

power of the shower

pitter patters

splashing through

the nightmare

to the dream

washes clean

refills

the blood that’s thirsty

refreshes

where it reaches

countrywide

dance and sing

with thunder

raise your voices

in the storm

that’s brewing

blowing

pour with pride