Dust

The poem I’m publishing here foresees the end of the world. The false god Me n’ Mine has too many worshippers to be withstood. Besides Greed, the angel which serves Me n’ Mine most faithfully is the Lie and it is the Lie by which the false god rules and will destroy us all.

 

In the beginning was the Word.

Conceived by the light and power of brain

the Word was formed of human breath

and through the soft and wondrous delicacy

of throat and tongue and lip

it became sound and meaning.

And the Word was with God

and the Word was God

and the same was in the beginning

with God.

But an instant after the Beginning,

unseen by God,

the Lie

stole into the garden

like a shadow

the shadow of the Word

and slid between the fact and the fear,

between the wonder of I and all that’s outside of Me,

and its tongue was forked and all a-flicker

and its eyes were cold and alert.

Nah then, the Lie whispered,

What gives ‘ere ?

 

And there were gods in the garden, many gods –

the true, the One, the one true God –

and the many that were false.

Nah then, said the Lie.

I need some living space.

To whose temple shall I offer my support

in return for my breakfast

my “daily bread” ?

 

And God the One, the only true,

Creation itself, Alpha, Omega,

the Creator of Matter, the Fact of Matter

the Matter of Fact and Reality,

made no answer to the Lie’s deliberations

and merely wept.

 

And all along the Lie knew

its way to go and where to rest

and slid by devious means

to the gold-clad tower of a deadly

god of human sacrifice

called Me ‘n Mine.

I shall place myself

at your service, O mighty

Me ‘n Mine and help you claim

the garden for your purposes,

your jealousies and terrors

your hatreds and your pride.

I shall help you in this great work

of poison and pollution, ruin and degradation,

in return for a daily spot of breakfast –

and let me add that more than a spot –

a “full English”  you might say –

would encourage my loyalty still further

to the point

of not infrequent overtime.

 

They sealed their pact, recognizing

the blood-tie. And the Lie became an angel

in the service of Me ‘n Mine, a foul demi-god

with gold-lacquered wings and that familiar forked tongue,

an angelised recruiting agent

an evangelist , a soul-stealer, a maker of creatures,

creatures in thrall to Me ‘n Mine

creatures of the Lie.

 

And following the customs of Middle Earth

where Good meets Evil, light meets dark,

they gave these captive creatures

the name “orc”

which, when registered

and beamed onto a screen

is always twinned with a virtual dot.

Thus : Joe Bloggs.orc

means we got ‘im

we stole the soul of that Joe Bloggs

and another one bites the dust.

 

And our garden once so fruitful

turns to wasteland ever more swiftly

as another one bites the dust

to the glory of Me ‘n Mine

to the glory of the Lie

and another one bites the dust…

and another one bites the dust…

 

So let us review

a few of these dot orcs

in their robot squadrons,

these creatures of Me ‘n Mine.

Let them engage in a short march-past

eyes right and glassily alert,

clutching to themselves

at an angle of sameness that spans the world

their dread weaponry of the Lie.

 

And of course there’s Trump.orc

Or Drumpf, or Tromb, or Dromb,

or drum or tomb or bomb.orc

dealer in dust, in money, in lies,

who favours towers which flag his name

and feudal walls of delusion and fear,

walls that divide and also confuse

fact with fantasy and truth with lie.

Where there are tired, poor and huddled masses

there we find Trump.orc,

strutting and twittering, making hay

and puerile scenes of fire and smoke.

Not America great again.

Each breath he breathes

America falls further from esteem

and becomes a fearsome joke.

 

But let us look eastward now to find

a lesser though similar joke.

Please regard the Maybot.orc

parading down the street

weak and utterly unstable

on a pretend chariot of painted gold

drawn by three dementing daleks.

 

And Brexit means Brexit

and nothing has changed

and red white and blue

and stuff you, you and you.

 

But in fact and truth, that chariot

is a vast and noisome bubble of fart

produced last year

by half the UK population

who felt let down and counted out

following years of belittlement,

“austerity,” unworthy leadership

and then a foul feast of lies

dished up by orcish fanatics trained in deceit

and a venomous chorus of dot orc billionaires.

 

It was a fart

swiftly trapped by liars

and forced into a cart-shape

and then wrapped in a flag

to make it look like a decision.

 

And the EU was not what it meant.

It was not the EU at all.

The EU was not it at all.

 

But Maybot.orc, seized that moment

of national distress and manifest need

and made it hers:

“The People have spoken ” she lied

in a hushed and reverential tone.

But it wasn’t the People she revered.

Maybot.orc is a pious devotee

of dust and Me n’ Mine.

“Listen to me,” she cried.

“It is I, the Maybot, who speak.

Here on this fart disguised as a chariot

I have come into my own.

And I shall bring global glory

to my fraught, distraught and tiny island

and I shall have control.

 

And I shall spray that dark tower

at the heart of Kensington

in a golden dust of denial. And I

shall bring back foxhunting,

grammar schools, aircraft carriers,

bows, arrows and the battle of Agincourt.

I shall bring back everything

and everything I restore

I shall cover in a golden dust cloud

of lie and denial. So let us now praise

the Lie and reward all liars

with tax relief and an OBE.

For principle, competence and honour are dead.

Me ‘n Mine is all that matters in the world.

Play that again, Sam. Mine and me.”

 

And in Maybot’s noisome train, we must pay

a moment’s attention to BoJo.orc

as he stumbles and fumbles along,

our Bullington Braveheart of the lie.

BoJo.orc makes jolly funny jokes

in Latin and loves it when we look at him

but if in some Etonian classroom

he once was taught to tell the truth

he forgot that lesson ages back.

Bully bully bully, mutters Bojo.orc

let Maybot just try to give me the sack.

 

And look, there’s Gove.orc

skipping about on the Maybot fart

waging war on the “Blob”, our teachers,

wielding his long knives, that clever man

wearing the livery of the Lord of Murdor

and those other billionaire barons

who’ve fought these many years

to make this country mean again,

in thrall to Me n’Mine.

 

Oh those billionaire barons, those global brothers in arms.

They devote their lives to helping each other

keep their fortress walls intact

and a clean and peaceful community at bay.

With their long knives out

the barons range the public highway

scattering gold dust, meat and wine

on any procession around the world

that marches for Me n’ Mine.

 

In the beginning was the Word

and the word was the silence of God

and an outcast child

asleep in a stable.

And the end when it comes

will be the triumph of the Lie

that pours like dust

from the jaws of Me’ n Mine.

We shall end in flames

in darkness and in disgrace

not with a bang

but a dust-filled whimper.

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       Rogan WolfNovember 12th 2017

 

Copyright © Rogan Wolf – Poet and Social Worker
In all our sanctuaries we sit at risk

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