Paul Stanway
Extremely eloquent ways of saying virtually nothing beyond the obvious, that we are, sooner or later, doomed.
CLASS PRECEDES ALL OTHER CONCERNS
sonnet
I shall not palter or add much finesse
Because I am a heterosexual male,
And white to boot. Should I have the largesse
To accept the guilt when others assail
The women, gays, blacks or whomsoever
You think, I may think? "I take for granted
Privilege!" But I'm attacked, with anger,
For . . .
HOW TO KEEP CONTROL IN A SOCIETY OF STRIVERS
sonnet
Seven billion souls all yearn for purpose.
This would be a problem, if we weren’t dumb
By birth or by choice - whatever. The surplus
Cash pettifoggers extract also numbs
Which is smartly done - they engineer meaning
And control demand, with self-policing
Networks of status and distinction. Feelings
. . .
FUTURE'S STATIC DOCUMENT
Sonnet
Unroofed, my heart's arrhythmic and target
Encircled. The clouds are rotten, plaster things
Crumbling a grey mist, fingered. Up I drift
Past all the copters - the sects surveilling
My sense for rent. Parallax, a reversed
Me unfolds: Prison Street sounds. I'm wailing
Free, as the fist clacks down . . .
"GOD BECOMES A CONTENDER", AND "SOCRATIC CONCEIT (UP MY ARSE)"
One And Two And One And Two And One And Two And Rest.
1: GOD BECOMES A SERIOUS CONTENDER FOR GIVING MY LIFE A SENSE OF MEANING
"I like cat videos." I said. "In particular I like hairless cats being strangled or microwaved."
"Sorry. I don't think this is the right job for you."
"It's cute. I know [laughs laughs] . . .
THE END OF THE BRITISH NATIONAL PARTY
sonnet
It was an acrimonious final act -
The party of the white working-class
Died live on the telly - it’s leader fell flat
On his fat arse and killed his party. The morass
Was expressed across most of the press
As the symptom of an idiotic pleb
Caste. The black-clad hooded peasant expressed
His racist . . .
THE CIGARETTE
sonnet
The cigarette is less stale a breath of air
Than I get from this sad, tumid pairing.
I'd rather die of cancer in this lair
Than give my room a decent airing.
The pairing is me plus word processor.
Silent orison - the cursor's half reptile,
The dead still, bored stare. Half old professor
. . .
Anarchotowelism
I was born as a towel and wept tears of blood -
A commodity sold for meaning and food.
The sun dried me useless - they wrung me out
And bleached me hungry. Yet I hung myself out
On a line, with mediocrities
Who ground me down - their gravities
Of normal. No more wings. Clip clip!
Those institutions gave me blood to . . .
