And when I’m off
No longer treading the boards
In the here and now
You might seek traces,
Remnants of the stuff I was

Don’t look for me
On LinkedIn or behind a desk
You won’t find me in
Bank accounts or
Material assets.
Neither in the
I was always
Pleased to collect

Find me instead
In poetry,
In Montag, The New City Scribe.
In Scriberazone.
Find me also
In dance
(There will always be
A little piece of me
Groovin’ eternally
On the bestest of dancefloors)

But most of all
You will find
The biggest
Part of me
In all the people I have

They were many
And they were dear


The Easy Skank

Whatever happened to
The easy skank?

Easy skanking
Was a way of life
For some.
An aspiration for others
And a safety net
For us all.

Easy skanking
Was the awkward
Hidden away in a
Dusty room
Emerging infrequently
(lectures mainly)
No pressure
And maybe
Finding out
Something amazing

Easy skanking
Was young people
Refusing to be
Sucked into the
Vortex of corporate work
Truths of their own
And the world.

The easy skank
Was the dream of the
Burnt-out wage slave
“At least I’ll be able to
Get an easy skank”
He would say.
And dream of ending
His working days
Doing not very much
For a decent week’s pay.

Easy skanking was Bristow.
Easy skanking was punk.

Targets, measurement, policy
And AI seek out the hiding
Places of skanking and
Emotionlessly eradicate them in the name
Of efficiency and profit.

We’re richer for it.

But all I see is poverty of souls.

Dulce Mendacium

The forgotten
Fallen soldier
Who warned you of lies
Wrapped in glory.
In patriotism.

Remember he
Who warned against
Following the beat
Of an empty
Sounded by those
Who risk nothing
To bewitch the ears of those
Who risk all.

And when,
Like the poet, you
Watch your fellows

The realisation
Too late –
Might arise:
You were found mouthing empty aphorisms
Devoid of meaning
Full of empty
Those moving mandibles –
The profundity of
A marionette.

Dulce et decorum est
Was the song that led men
To their extinction

The words have changed
But refrain of mendacious
Plays on.

(for Wilfred Owen 1893 – 1918)

Why Am I Here?

Philosophy is a favourite subject of mine on this blog, and it would be reasonable to assume from the title of this post that this is going to be some detailed treatise about the meaning of life or some such.

Thankfully for us both (me: because I don’t have much time tonight, and you: because you will be spared some terse pseudo-intellectual waffle), this isn’t the case. This blog is my response to the first assignment on the March blogging101 course which I’ve signed up for. Continue reading