Chained to dying reason. Alone, cold in miserable wastelands. Futures Gothic, depressed. The languid hope that proceeds in everyday life, curtained by lies. Is it even there? The priest answers, "believe and you shall receive." Yet belief in who, to whom and in what? False prophets. A triumvirate of craven illusion. Sad days. Sad days for the island of sweet Albion, land of freedom. Island of castles to fortify reason. No, that too is illusion. Where are the sound voices of judgement and reason? Where is the culture of expectation? no were. In no time. Maybe a brief time in the dream-making, in the myth-making. And yet how has the land of Locke, Swift and Paine, the land of Mill, Shakespeare and Milton, Milton, come to collective insanity?
The sceptred isle was in decline. Brexit, is a catalyst that speeds it up. Decline is good for a writer, it is bad for the reader. It is bad for the society. The Tory party have condemned generations to the expectation of failure. Ours is a suicide of painful slowness. It can be stopped. The trigger doesn't have to be pulled. But in English style, we sit idle and wait patient for the slow-motion of the bullet to enter our brains, splattering our futures all over the cold seas of our own tears. Remember, it can be stopped. It can be stopped. We don't have to do it. And yet, we will. We will because we are English. Our national secret is self-flagellation. Our national shame is stubborn recklessness. Throw common sense to the memory of the Blitz. The English have no more reason than Amoeba. Suffering, that is the English banner now. Suffering. Maybe the world will pity little Blighty, but it shouldn't. Yey, suffering is our creed now.
The current European architecture compared to the false Jerusalem promised by the Tory party is as Hyperion to a satyr. If you choose to get rid of something, you do so in lieu of gaining something better. Only an unteachable monkey would prefer pain to pleasure. This is not philosophy written in the spheres of the cosmos. But in common sense. The same common sense that is taught at Eton and Harrow. But which the ministers educated there, have abandoned. There is such a thing as collective delusion. Mass mania. It is the same phenomena that caused the Great Dancing Plague of 1518. It is the same phenomena that lead to the Cool Aid. It is the same phenoma gripping Anglaterre. It is a miasma screening nothing.
Thus I to England still can go.
But with my wife? I do not know.
That is not the only couplet caused by the three brexiteers and their insane Trumped-up powder kegs, ready to explode in a great firework show of empty gestures. There are more:
The gap grows between rich and poor
Pity. Now it will grow many times more.
Buffoons such as Johnson, Davis and Fox
spread metaphysical itch, mange and pox.
What are we heading towards, ladies and gentlemen? What are we heading towards? If you give up something great, it is to head towards something better. But what are they promising us? Things that no one believes in, not even themselves. If they were better at the act, we could swallow it more sweetly. But they are poor actors with their hour upon the stage. We will get a diminished state all for the need to satisfy some theory. But it is not just the right who are wrong. Brexit will go down in history as also the intersection of stupidity and cowardice of Jeremy Corbyn. Whatever the argument is of the merits or not of 1970's union-syndacalist socialism, it still doesn't excuse the utter failure of the leader of labour to be puffed over by the faint air of the Tories. How craven! How imprecise! Forget Momentum. This is inertia!
And as for the conservatives, Jonson is the chief baboon, a man whose face is a cross between a smashed custard tart and a monkey's scrotum. He is whistling. He is singing the feedback loop of his foolish fevered brain. This tussle-haired maniac is the poster child of "Freedom". "With Brexit we take back sovereignty," without saying exactly what that sovereignty is. "With Brexit we control immigration," without saying that immigration helps us grow. Alas we have a stupid political class in turn because we have a stupid electorate. And this brings me to a firm point. A sharp point. We are a parliamentary democracy not a democracy by plebiscite. Truthfully, the British public shouldn't be taxed with the burden of government no more than cat have to be a dog. Representative democracy means representing. Three times in recent years the British public have been asked to do the job of government because the Tory party are too craven to make decisions. A party of muddle-heads have created a crisis. Well done!
And now maybe May, the darling bud of May, the flower out of the ashes of our graves, is delivering rubbish to the doorstep of every Briton, rather than picking it up. But we will muddle on, slowly edging our way into the cloud-broken sunbeams. On the other-hand, will anything really be different? If I have laid it on with a trowel it is only to exaggerate the importance of what is really, effectively a non-event. The buses will continue, people will still say hello, blokes will continue to eat beans and bacon, little girls will continue to dream of the royal ballet, gin will be served, dinner will be ready, the rubbish will be collected. What then will change? Mere symbolism. A scutcheon. The colour of thought. That's all. And as for the economic argument...
Brexit is a storm of nothingness, a banality, a load of froth. We all know the beer will taste the same, either and any which way.
The sceptred isle was in decline. Brexit, is a catalyst that speeds it up. Decline is good for a writer, it is bad for the reader. It is bad for the society. The Tory party have condemned generations to the expectation of failure. Ours is a suicide of painful slowness. It can be stopped. The trigger doesn't have to be pulled. But in English style, we sit idle and wait patient for the slow-motion of the bullet to enter our brains, splattering our futures all over the cold seas of our own tears. Remember, it can be stopped. It can be stopped. We don't have to do it. And yet, we will. We will because we are English. Our national secret is self-flagellation. Our national shame is stubborn recklessness. Throw common sense to the memory of the Blitz. The English have no more reason than Amoeba. Suffering, that is the English banner now. Suffering. Maybe the world will pity little Blighty, but it shouldn't. Yey, suffering is our creed now.
The current European architecture compared to the false Jerusalem promised by the Tory party is as Hyperion to a satyr. If you choose to get rid of something, you do so in lieu of gaining something better. Only an unteachable monkey would prefer pain to pleasure. This is not philosophy written in the spheres of the cosmos. But in common sense. The same common sense that is taught at Eton and Harrow. But which the ministers educated there, have abandoned. There is such a thing as collective delusion. Mass mania. It is the same phenomena that caused the Great Dancing Plague of 1518. It is the same phenomena that lead to the Cool Aid. It is the same phenoma gripping Anglaterre. It is a miasma screening nothing.
Thus I to England still can go.
But with my wife? I do not know.
That is not the only couplet caused by the three brexiteers and their insane Trumped-up powder kegs, ready to explode in a great firework show of empty gestures. There are more:
The gap grows between rich and poor
Pity. Now it will grow many times more.
Buffoons such as Johnson, Davis and Fox
spread metaphysical itch, mange and pox.
What are we heading towards, ladies and gentlemen? What are we heading towards? If you give up something great, it is to head towards something better. But what are they promising us? Things that no one believes in, not even themselves. If they were better at the act, we could swallow it more sweetly. But they are poor actors with their hour upon the stage. We will get a diminished state all for the need to satisfy some theory. But it is not just the right who are wrong. Brexit will go down in history as also the intersection of stupidity and cowardice of Jeremy Corbyn. Whatever the argument is of the merits or not of 1970's union-syndacalist socialism, it still doesn't excuse the utter failure of the leader of labour to be puffed over by the faint air of the Tories. How craven! How imprecise! Forget Momentum. This is inertia!
And as for the conservatives, Jonson is the chief baboon, a man whose face is a cross between a smashed custard tart and a monkey's scrotum. He is whistling. He is singing the feedback loop of his foolish fevered brain. This tussle-haired maniac is the poster child of "Freedom". "With Brexit we take back sovereignty," without saying exactly what that sovereignty is. "With Brexit we control immigration," without saying that immigration helps us grow. Alas we have a stupid political class in turn because we have a stupid electorate. And this brings me to a firm point. A sharp point. We are a parliamentary democracy not a democracy by plebiscite. Truthfully, the British public shouldn't be taxed with the burden of government no more than cat have to be a dog. Representative democracy means representing. Three times in recent years the British public have been asked to do the job of government because the Tory party are too craven to make decisions. A party of muddle-heads have created a crisis. Well done!
And now maybe May, the darling bud of May, the flower out of the ashes of our graves, is delivering rubbish to the doorstep of every Briton, rather than picking it up. But we will muddle on, slowly edging our way into the cloud-broken sunbeams. On the other-hand, will anything really be different? If I have laid it on with a trowel it is only to exaggerate the importance of what is really, effectively a non-event. The buses will continue, people will still say hello, blokes will continue to eat beans and bacon, little girls will continue to dream of the royal ballet, gin will be served, dinner will be ready, the rubbish will be collected. What then will change? Mere symbolism. A scutcheon. The colour of thought. That's all. And as for the economic argument...
Brexit is a storm of nothingness, a banality, a load of froth. We all know the beer will taste the same, either and any which way.
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