Celebrating Spencer Perceval!

A curious anniversary is fast approaching associated with the British Prime Minister Spencer Perceval. The anniversary is of his demise on 11 May 1812. While Perceval represented a hated Tory government he did at least perform one intriguing function: being assassinated in office. So I wonder what's the best way of celebrating this momentous event? After all we do have another hated Tory government.

Realisation

I want to write
of the sun that'll shine
of the clear sky
and the cold spring air

Not of the foggy dawn, that's
something so powerful
it hides the hillside
with its cold mist

I want to see
the flailing banners
that an attractive girl
swings, marching onwards

Not submissiveness
of acceptance
or the forced convention that
causes resentment

All in a Unique Identifier

Zak hated his name. It was way too much like something out of those old fashioned SiFi movies they showed on channel 27, and Zak hated all those movies. But there it was, he was stuck with it, assigned to him by the Grand Council at birth and with little hope of it ever changing. Zak could tolerate his Unique Identifier, also assigned by the Grand Council, and it had even less possibility of ever changing. He preferred to use this later moniker whenever possible.

The medical dome was awkward to get to. When you finally arrived at the outskirts of the mega-metropolis the shuttle was quick enough; albeit annoyingly infrequent. Why did they not place this medical dome with the others near the centre of the mega-metropolis. On his few previous visits Zak felt like complaining to the Grand Council but he'd never gotten round to it; his complaint would have been ignored anyway. Once off the shuttle it was a couple of minutes brisk walk to the medical dome. Zak's slender fame and long skinny legs made quick work of the journey. He glided up to the dome's entrance block and smiled, with his thin face and thin lips, at the lone super smart check-in girl. Previously he'd had to queue but the rest of today's batch must already be in place.

Style

Money cannot buy good taste,
Neither style, elegance nor finesse.

Just look at the gory sick buckets many millionaires reside in;
Everything gold plated, pristine and so expensive,
It all looking as if it was recently delivered from the pound shop.

Review – Benjamin Zephaniah

Benjamin Zephaniah is a poet I have been meaning to investigate for some time. He seems an interesting character, to have intriguing politics and I admire his rejection of a disreputable OBE and also making a fuss about it.

So I was surprised, when reading a few of his poems, at the disappointment setting in. I found many of them somewhat heavy handed and, above all, many of the rhymes jarring, disrupting the flow of the poem.

Fortunately I did not completely give up at that point and did indulge in a number of YouTube videos. Watching Zephaniah perform and some of the poems I had doubts about came across as more entertaining. He can certainly keep a room of schoolkids enthralled – not an easy task. If fact it's curious that in Zephaniah's performances he does not stress the rhymes, more often playing them down, avoiding the emphasis, so there whole effect is less jarring.

I don't see the above as my definitive view on Zephaniah; far from it; just questioning, just a few incoherent thoughts. And as entertaining as his performances are I still have lingering doubts about poems that do not work when being read.

Two Walks in Arrowe Park

we'll collect it later
when we're done
the little plastic wrapped package
the delicate perfumed draped bouquet

autumn fades, trees undress
the stark cold bark revealed
there dangling, petite summer gifts
dog shit left hanging from the tree

Mask

The
Mask of
disorder, the
disguise of
Anarchy

Iron Men, Crosby Beach

Men, scattered, standing on the forlorn shore, looking out, solitary, seaward, never speaking, never moving.

Some completely submersed at high tide, others knee deep in the shifting turbulent sands; all glimpsing, longing for, the occasional ship that passes them by.

Each facing away from the fading town; a wannabe tourist destination that never was; these men the last gloomy attraction.

Men that have never lived, never loved, never worked, never screamed, never grown up.

But like all, decaying; and eventually, when we've all perished, washed away on those turbulent sands.

Expectations

You should live the way you expect other people to live.

You pay minimum wage,
You should survive on minimum wage.

You profit from a third world sweat shops,
You should stitch trainers eighteen hours a day.

You send others off to fight in a useless war,
You should be crippled, maimed, terrorised in war.

You condemn people to beg on the streets,
You should have a cardboard box, a doorway, for a home.

You should live the way you expect others to live.

Interesting Behaviour

The first:
The short red hair, cascading; the glossy tattoos, like tribal scars; purple metallic bangles, jangling, jangling.
Interesting behaviour.

The other:
The cropped black hair, slender; a yellow t-shirt, short, tight; snug jeans, sparkling, designer distressed and beautifully torn; the oval face, sun tanned, smiling; the delicate bulge on the lips, moaning, moaning.
Interesting behaviour.