by David Erdos
Somewhere in Chess sits that secret moment
When the board turns to fire as the predetermined vision
Ignites, and when the parade of each piece before the gaze
Of fate proves astounding, revealing how what’s decided
Is framed by both the cosmic black and star white
The moving of politicians perhaps is much more
Than just the opposite of that process. The phrase cabinet
Reshuffle is the desperate pose of the checked,
For this moving of mates is arbitrary at best,
Not strategic. It is an attempt to hide behind order
As the Rat Ship slides into sinking and as chaos
Flames below deck. It is worse that wankers
Who frot inside their own pockets. And is not
As calm as cards who slice cleanly between fortune
And decline. It is a last turgid act in which
Unable to plan, you move madly. As if you were
Cheating at scrabble or leaving and losing your
Shit. It’s a sign. As recently as yesterday Sunak still
Supported Suella, sadly another Indian woman
Who made her boorish predessor seem astute.
I’ve used this joke before but I cannot resist
Its repeating as this shrill sounding siren
Kept singing a sick c for Canute. Make light
Of those letters to read what I think of these people
Who strive to lead us, just as the Pied Pipist
Led rats. And lets not forget his dark price
And who he took back to the mountain. Which one
Of us will stay beach bound when survival’s song
Resounds flat? The walls are closing in, made of sand,
And Rishi soon will slump, buried. Alarmed by Starmer
Who is somewhat surprisingly on the rise, Rishi
Returns from under his rock, the crab Cameron
Who has been licking probably the same pearls
And Oysters that Sunak’s tax-free wife must assize.
No doubt there are living the dream of past days
Creamed by glory. Which in Politics can last minutes
Or a half score of years; which the public will never get back,
Pawns, priests and even Queens sacrificed, or soldiers dead.
Pensions frozen. Alan Bennett was right, live to 90 and still
Be able to boil an egg you’re held dear. This happened
With Oswald Mosley and soon, it will happen with Boris.
Though God forbid he continues his toilet squat for that long.
But TV will soon have him back, which shows how we should
All make our returns quick to reading, or to the piano placed
In the parlour, where families once fused around song.
When it happens it will show how stupid we are,
And clearly how guileless as we allow the erosion
Of standards like Suella’s empty sea to suck shores
Of their welcome and sheen. And so Cameron crawls,
Lobster licking, with crap and caviar soon combining
To stain and stink step and door. Behind which Sunak
Steers towards the After Dinner Speech Circuit.
Not to mention the book that by Christmas 24 or 25
Will feed trash, whether placed in the shops,
Or languishing in a dustbin. The print of another
Displaced slim-hipped shadow placing a fat-faced fool
There beside him as the sinking ship does a wheelie
To become our next fatal car-crash, as we careen
Between choice and the lack of it bequeathed to us.
Under his storm, Sunak’s steering is not a safe return
To bland bays but a mayday signal at best, the wave
Of a soon to be anonymous arm in its drowning.
Even if he wins, it’s not worth it. As it seems no decision
Made while aboard that careless craft can convey
What needs to happen. And so Cameron’s call
And each news unworthy item is another nail
In the coffin that has already been thrown out to sea.
We just have to secure it, that’s all. But have you ever tried
To hammer hard through wild water? It chills chance,
Hands and motion, stopping it dead. Are fish free?
Or just biding time until we can trap them.
It’s a good job Democracy’s broken, and that equal
For all cannot be, or else the elite would be unable
To roam, forget and then net us. For just as we are
Cod-driven, they would have us with chips, easily.
Politics now, today is what Pop was in my childhood:
Cannibalistic. Music sweetened. But this is sour stuff.
Spit back. Checkmate. Unvote. Change.