A poem - All Mankind

Hope that this isn't too bleak.....Fell free to comment on here or on Twitter.

All Mankind

All mankind to the lie subscribes

Which once told contains

That prolix mendacity,

That slimy unattractive altar

At which Faith, Fidelity

And Trust does lie,

Saving marriages by disallowing

Trust, Faith and Fidelity let to fly.

However in some the temptation

Is too great to deny,

They see beauty in another, and in

The ensuing hue and cry

Lust, which will always outweigh Love

In any Philosophical debate

Then sinks to a debase love-hate

Oft times this then becomes ruinous and irate.

A sexual attraction to which, they,

The protagonists

Forswear to which they cannot relate

Both will then deny the hurt

Foisted and Inflicted on partner or lover

They, the guilty, remain sedate

Luxuriant in their lustful gratification

For in Truth, honesty is resistant to the lie.

Comments

The Protein Man of Oxford Street- Stanley Owen Green.

I wrote this Obituary piece for The Guardian about Stanley Green while I was an undergraduate at Goldsmiths' College. I contacted The Guardian and asked them if I could submit it for publication. It was sent off to them and I waited in eager anticipation for their reply. It was published on Wednesday January 26th 1994, the Editor made no changes or additions except by adding some photographs (the photographs used here are later additions by me): "A Consuming Passion.... Stanley Owen Green who has died aged aged 78, was that tall thin man with steel-rimmed glasses who marched it seemed for an eternity up and down London's Oxford Street. It was his banner that made him famous, held high above his head and proclaiming "LESS LUST FROM PROTEIN" in large white letters. Underneath the banner he endured the taunts of sticky schoolchildren and the spittle of office workers alike, to bring his unique, indeed puzzling message to the people of London. He later wate...

Childhood

I don't remember any of the good times, They were few and far between, Only the bad times, The three week sulks, The temper tantrums, The silence of meal times, The brooding menace of each waking day, The not knowing how each innocent word, Would fall on those temper attuned ears, The rare smile, The rare laughter. Above all, The silence.

Lord Farage

In Chequers Lord Nigel Farage Sometime of Downe and Windsor Lit up yet another Rothman’s fag (He had another ten thousand in his diplomatic bag) Swigged on his great British pint And looked out on his bucolic view Then he loudly let out a ‘PHEW’ But what he was really thinking ‘Look where peculating has got you’ He fiddled with old school tie Striped black and royal blue Smugly smoothed it down Rested back in his dining chair Meshed his fingers across His beer filled belly Smiled a gleeful smile Then shook his head In total astonishment Leaning forward to the banquet table Laid out before him He jabbed a polished silver fork Into his great British Steak and kidney pie Bit on a hot salty chip Licked his upper lip Then jubilantly looked Back out at the view Taking another drag On his Rothman’s fag Stubbing it out Coughed a bit Then another fag he lit Musing on his British made pie Impaled a piece of steak With his silver fork Pushed the meat into his m...

I often think.

Search This Blog