IT'S SO QUIET
it's so quiet
our eloquent words dying on a diet
of midnight toast
with Orwell's ghost-
looking so tubercular in a tweed jacket
pencilling notes on a lung black cigarette packet-
our Winston, wronged for a woman and sin
re-wrote history on scrolls thought down tubes
that came to him
in the Ministry Of Truth Of Fools
where conscience learns to lie within.
not like today
the smug-sly haves say and look away
there's nothing wrong with wanting more,
or drown their sorrows
downing bootleg gin
truth is paper thin.
with tapped and tracked phone
the Thought Police arrest me
in the corridors of affection-
where dictators wear, red then blue, reversible coats
in collapsing houses, all self-made
now the Round Table
of real red politics
is only fable
on the pyre of ghostly heretics.
they are rubbing out
all the contusions
and solitary doubt,
through wired media
defined in their secret encyclopedia-
where summit and boardroom and conclave
engineer us from birth to grave.
like the birds,
i will have to eat
berries that ripen but sleep
alive and warm
this winter, with resolution
gathering us, to its lantern in the bleak,
to be reborn and speak.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 22nd August, 2010. All Rights Reserved.
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