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Rant #140415 ‘The Real People’

He says he’s working for ‘the real’ people.
Well that’s me fucked then.
I am a robot,
a symbiant,
a withered apparition,
the collective expression of other people’s ideas,
jammed into a man shaped hole and trapped there.
I am the product of a system,
and he would not like to meet me.
There might be discussion,
or disagreement,
I might offend his religious devotion to a set of ideas,
to the principles of his private club,
set up for ‘the real people’,
the ones who agree,
who play nice,
who appreciate his practiced smile.
They flock around and their saviour,
scrape and bow,
until something changes,
and they are not ‘real people’,
or he finds himself less ‘real’,
exposing the lizard within,
hidden inhumanity tends to frighten the electorate,
so best keep that skin suit zipped mate,
and don’t look too deeply into their eyes,
or they may see the monster inside.
I am happy in my tin,
immune to the disease of ‘the real people’.
I am no longer flesh and bone, waiting to be ground,
I see,
I think,
I feel,
but I will never be ‘real’.

Late night, early morning

Lights firing inside my head,

perhaps, afraid one day they will go out.

I follow her constant breathing, with envy at each effortless sigh,

hoping soon my mind will wander or be distracted by morpheus touch.

I turn, torturing myself,

shifting weight.

Processing, clearing, exploring yesterday and the day ahead.

I hope for rest, but a pretension lives on,

where this malady is some inspirational disease.

I fear it is a curse.



Amongst a crowd of people,
speaking words I do not understand.
I never make a sound,
but know many things in the quiet of a beer glass night.
Watching as the clouds turn black
and laughter stills,
there is a peaceful pause.


Squashed two

I am squashed between two worlds
and though grown from my roots,
trying to maintain some clemency.
Hoping to think and not offend;
I was raised too cautious,
but in awe of heroes;
I fought inside my mind:
I did not step on grass.
I did not talk in class.
I did not sleep around.
I held back most I felt.

Understanding is the rarest thing,
a ghost amongst ideas.
And when the call was sounded
and as usual I had no heart,
but on hearing violent voices and
displays of casual threat,
the petty digs and schadenfreude,
provoked a hidden rage.

Speaking a little louder,
at risk of unknown change
then in a moment critical,

To share an open feeling
of honest lost belief,
where no one is a victor,
but everyone is heard.
Better loud than silent
I suppose, or else I’m wrong,
to roar my thoughts ferocious,
as I retreat in to my cage.

Squashed one

I don’t agree with all I love,

but love those who don’t agree.

If my mother taught me anything,

it was how to be contrary.

Mourning the dodging of many bullets

If I survive to be old,

I hope that by then society will have learnt that experience does not equal wisdom,

and that survival may only indicate the dodging of many bullets.

If they treat me with reverence,

let it be for my achievements and not from any misguided sentimentality,

they should chide me for my follies

and ignore my foolish advice, but without cruelty or intention to cause pain.

Leave me alone when needed and expect me to function as best I can,

it is a wickedness to control through care,

or to diminish through sympathy.

For now I shall run towards the bullets

and try not to wince if they scrape my skin,

I might need it when I am baggy.

Where is the fool?

Where is the fool who hides in the man?
To question the passing of time,
without which his wisdom does suffer the most,
splintered from protection, it fails.
When spoken in tongues, we see through the lie,
no reverence without ridicule,
subjected to fancy and flowery prose,
full of praise and no sign of ill.
The masses await, enthralled by a day
will question the purpose, not a bit.
Lucky are they who simply feel free
to give up their token of wit.
But suffer the bastards who stand on the hill,
by base, on the heath or beside,
a river that cuts between regal and muck,
who treacherous slogans cry.
Knowing less than they speak,
speaking more than they ought,
and spending much more than they owe,
plagued by such doubts, with no sense of pride
as seeking the truth ain’t no good.
But stand up for bastards, fools and the one
who shake fists in rage at the moon,
as lashed by the storm, in fear of it all,
ungrateful for what they are thrown,
go naked to war with ideas and no more
with knowledge they are alone.


(Written between 11am and 12noon, 29th April 2011, with thanks to another William)