Former UK Labour Party leader Jeremy Corbyn after voting in the British General Election on December 12, 2019
My tenth, and final, poem responding to the new series of Reeling In The Years. Last evening’s episode covered 2019. This poem was written in the immediate aftermath of the UK General Election defeat of Jeremy Corbyn’s Labour by Boris Johnson’s Conservatives.In those few days it seemed like every wine-soaked, politically (and probably actually) constipated centrist swarmed onto my Facebook page to say: I told you so!
Now, under the late Keir Starmer, despite, to put it mildly, much more favourable media coverage, UK Labour is actual further behind the Tories than was the case under Corbyn and the diagnosis seems far more terminal as the huge enthusiasm that was there for Corbyn, despite all the smears, particularly among young voters is absolutely not there for Starmer. But no matter. Hope is off the table and the aforementioned centrists can get back to soaking themselves in wine and failing to properly go to the toilet but living in the hope of an invite to next year’s Spectator garden party….
After The Defeat
People who never did anything in the first place
talk about giving up; text you
from the ruins of their overworked armchairs,
while you’re stuck breathing in diesel
and death on the beach at Dunkirk.
TV studios crowd with
suddenly undead experts, all come to tell you,
now we know the chemotherapy
hasn’t worked as you’d hoped,
it’s time you took up smoking again
to see if that helps.
Devils prowl internet and Earth,
dressed in clothes almost identical to yours,
and whisper in voices
part Siren picking her lyre, part bark of jackal,
part your worst self whining,
that the only way you’ll be rid
of war, Jacob Rees Mogg, and poor people
dying of being poor
is if you desist from further silliness
and click the box to sign up
to their generous introductory offer
of a little more war, Jacob Rees Mogg
and poor people dying because they deserve it.
Terms and conditions to follow.