The wasp rages in its belljar; fighting
against the glass, that warping of the air
it would escape, or angrily fracture.
Its vehemence consumes the spirit of the place,
signalling its will to overcome constraint
imposed upon an insect superman…
…to break and fly and hunt and find and sting
and harm the world, except for wasps;
for only wasps can matter.
Ignored as if a lie, its pitch and volume rise,
shrill and edged and utterly relentless,
until it dominates the room.
In passing, I thought it was a good day for:
1) The organisers. Res ipsa loquitur.
2) The pall bearers. Get it right and no-one notices; one slip and you’re forever notorious…
3) Justin Welby. Not a natural orator, he rose to the occasion.
And it was a bad day for:
1) Princess Pinocchio. Just for being there. How does she have the effrontery? Don’t answer that.
2) Liz Truss. For reading one of the best known and most moving passages in the English language as if it was a list of the runners and riders in the 3:15 at Catterick.
3) Network Rail. Wires down outside Paddington. It happens occasionally, no-one’s at fault. But when your luck’s out, it’s out.
However, the real winners were communal feeling, tradition and continuity. Not my natural territory. But sometimes dissent is best to be still.
Intercede for us!
We lost our saints; now you’re gone,
more than Majesty…
Please weep for me, Argentina!
The truth is you were my model,
All through my wild days,
My mad existence.
I made my promise,
I will devalue.
And as for fortune, and as for fame,
I always pursued them with zeal,
So it seemed to the world they were all I desired
Although they’re illusions.
Whom god would destroy she first makes mad! I am crazed,
I have no answers, I hope you
won’t notice all my brazen lies!
Now cry for me, Argentina!
The truth is I will be reckless,
I’m always shallow,
A sad example.
I want to borrow
Your worthless money.
(With apologies to Tim Rice and Andrew Lloyd Webber)
The social wheel keeps turning: waxing is in vogue
so these are easy times to praise the smooth;
but we belong here too, we are human to the core…
Individuals.
We are different, even from the different:
a minority, scattered on the littoral
beyond the margins of the pale…
Incongruous?
Defiant in our pride, we flaunt our adult bodies:
our fineries, our primal coverings of hair,
as we dress to draw desire, in gorgeous lingerie…
Attraction!
During darker nights, my pelt will heat my blood
while restless dreams – of stroking yours, my dear –
fuel embers into flames; of lust, for nature’s way…
Unveiled.
A tart without a heart, worn dry, weighed down by drag;
who claims to be professional, but is bereft
of honesty, or any whore’s pretence. A denizen
of sauna rooms, crawled briefly from the sleaze
that festers, nsa, among darker corners;
thinking that the light would help…
A slut who flaunts their shrivelled clit
and claims their arse is tight; who talks and talks
of sex and pops, and throngs of sordid meets…
They look convincing at first pass – but artifice is thin:
that wilting skin is rough, the jaw too strong, their eyes hollow
like an excuse, a disappointment in a dress…
The olde worlde manne buffed up his puff
and spoke, mellifluously, but in a strangled voice
that whistled in his breath, through classic English teeth
not-quite-concealed below his baccy ‘tache…
“I voted to turn back the clock. Ourselves alone,
the insular, in poverty, you know… And now
I’m in the writers’ group! We’re such a cosy clique
which meets together, every other week,
to stroke ourselves, to pat each other on the cheek;
to share some jokes (that no-one else can know!)
and tell our friends how really, jolly nice we are…
“I know that strangers do take part, sometimes;
but I’ve devised a cunning plan! Haha!
It will be barratry (albeit smartly dressed):
we’ll hike the sub, we’ll bundle things
they never need or use, to make it plain
outsiders are not welcome here.
Three hundred percent! That should do the trick!! Haha!
And look here, don’t you fret your pretty heads:
I know we once were 50, and now we’re only ten;
but why should that matter?! Even if the bulkheads fail
and we should drift our ship aground, a wreck
will bring us respite, from creation’s toil and bite…
My dears! Whatever might be wrong with that?
It is the English way, you know. Haha haha!”
The olde worlde manne buffed up his puff
and spoke, mellifluously, but in a strangled voice
that whistled in his breath, through classic English teeth
not-quite-concealed below his baccy ‘tache…
“You know, I marinade my ego in my creative juice
(as someone may have said, in 1922);
I am a captain in the upper middle class –
haute bourgeoisie, by way of Tuscany –
my social life’s in rugby, the way it used to be,
and I’m the colonel of my family, haha!
although I can’t see past my elbow or, you know…
What’s that you say? The seat of my pants? Is on fire?!
“I used to be at Lloyd’s, haha, back in the day,
the good old days, when insiders had all the luck
and outside Names would leave their shirts behind;
that’s back before the Yankees came, of course,
and corporates (they’re much the same)
with rules and plans and oversight, with outsiders
who knew the score, and counted beans;
and so that game was up. Though not before…
“Ah. But. I mustn’t tell you that. Haha!
So I took refuge in the Clubs, where yesterday was still in place
and if you closed one eye, and squinted hard enough,
you’d see the shade of dear old Vic:
the Empress’ portrait on the wall, gazing on her world,
presiding, impotent, bereft, decked in her widow’s weeds;
as good old chaps like me showed moneyed foreigners
how things were done round here. Haha…
Her virtue has been easy, used
by her and others as a shortcut to a woman:
as she herself describes, with talent, craft and humour,
brought to bear on glorious debauchery;
The cover skills of artifice – nails and cosmetics,
heels and hosiery and lingerie, perfume –
each one has been applied with tender care
as temple gifts to raw and ravishing desire;
In creating skin-deep beauty she portrays
the surface of a woman, dressed to please herself;
an illusion that reflects – to illustrate the fire,
the feminine, that burns and shines inside.
Well, I was born into this mode, he said:
this world of laziness and compromise and
making-do and just-about complacency;
When what I really wanted was straight lines
and boxes ticked and then you have perfection –
at least, in execution not design –
with just a curve or two thrown in, with grace,
to demonstrate some thought, that creativity exists ~
But also, darling, on another level, on a different day,
I could have been more female from gestation:
wonderful and powerful, resilient strong and complex;
someone who’s singing from the heart instead
of seeking patterns in a wilderness of thought ~
Maintain the Advance! 