Tuesday, 16 February 2010

War Journal Day 2957

Henry V

My king so great and grand
of Norman blood and Saxon heart
who crossed the channel into France
to save us from ourselves.

I beg of you one more task
to reforge your glorious sword
and lay it in the heathen's mask
Far beyond dear Agincourt.

Two more reasons to love the New York Times

1. "Yessir! Perpetual War" or 'WE can't handle the truth!'

"The New York Times learned of the operation on Thursday, but delayed reporting it at the request of White House officials, who contended that making it public would end a hugely successful intelligence-gathering effort. The officials said that the group’s leaders had been unaware of Mullah Baradar’s capture and that if it became public they might cover their tracks and become more careful about communicating with each other."

2. Lookout! Democracy

Tea Party Movement Lights Fuse for Rebellion on Right

One can think of more than a few autocrats who would love to have such a friendly fourth estate.

Wednesday, 10 February 2010

Songs that no one will hear

My Dear,

There always the good life
scrawled in ash
alone amongst the fawns
a breath finely drawn.

"I hope you find Old Mexico but I can't show you the way.
It's darker and treacherous right here at home but...
And surely you must see
the fortune before me
For that alone I make my way."

Sunday, 7 February 2010

Communist Stooge?

According to Labour MP Chris Bryant, all Eurosceptics are conservative stooges. Would that there were more commie stooges.

Thursday, 4 February 2010

Ghosts now and then

Every morning. Palimpsests of fabrics – an inglorious mix of cotton, nylon, wool, rayon, polyester and plastic – strewn about the floor. Crescent, waxing and waning, pools of charred coffee running out like mice through uncountable arcane warrens. Starched collars and vein red and blue ties knife through disintegrating t-shirts. Wet boots at the foot of each hideous cropping. Little clowns them all.

The sink no different. Long and short, unwanted, black and grey hairs float about in fetid lakes of water. Toothbrushes leaning, like rotten stalks of corn in festering unworked holdings. The shower running. Clouds of steam gathering around burning lights.

Next, the phone. Its ancient sidecar traps the four same voices everyday. One comforting, another bruised and silent, the third and fourth playful and wailing.

“Please. Leave.”

The house silent in the afternoon. The baby an unkempt jejune pig in awe of his father. The towering figure’s once furrowed brow relaxed in sight of his child. Starless rooms kept just alive by the low-grade humming life-support of the many functioning appliances. The rest of the afternoon spent cleaning: amidst hopes of finding himself the next morning; alone.

The evening, a mix of discourse and silence. First, banal eulogies of the passed day. After, fits of outrage aimed television-ward. The news, of hypocrisy, immorality and untruth. His righteous rants fiery displays of ineptitude.

“Fucking government”

Exhaustion ruffling the bed sheets. The room lurching in anticipation of the visitor. The immaculate order portends a restless sleep. Father still alert.

Past midnight. Lilting trees trace their ominous outlines along the bathroom wall. The wife sprawled dead and numb, exhausted and happy from the slaughter. Drooping eyelids fend off her soporific breathing.

Early hours. His somnambulist fingers falling on a truncheon. He’ll hide in an indeterminate space behind the door. Timid ankles turning over. The venomous boudoir punctures his bilious head.

In the morning, the long-awaited solitude.