Unwinding

Having played my tiny part in the creaking, groaning, shuddering collective spasm we call self-determination, I need to recover. I have not worked so hard in a long while. The count was interesting and I am glad I went. Emily Thornberry won by a whisker, my local patch has a Labour MP, and the country has a third successive Labour government. I took some pictures, drank a couple of beers, came home, chatted on IRC, watched the TV, and crashed about 3.30am.




In the middle of the campaign, I began to think about what it was that propelled all these people, I began to identify with these gluttons for punishment and power, and I recalled JG saying to me, think of the size of the wound. He was talking about George Bush.



The desire to rise to the top of the pile, the taking on of responsibility, the wielding of authority. Is it all at root just about the need to be feel important, to be at the centre, to be the man or the woman upon whom so much depends? It made me think about the value of personal and social attainment, and in the middle of writing my bloggist reportage, I wrote this little ditty:

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The Wound Of Not Being Recognised

It is so lovely to be recognised, a tremendous boost to self-esteem.
He is looking at the big car he's going to drive, and the heavies and the beauties
And the diplomatic ladies

It's the wound of not being recognised. Poor motherless children
they run around your feet, banging that old beatup bucket

And we'll all join in their games just to keep happy
ever since he was ignored he's always been the one to score

I'm your man or woman for the job
with the right keyfob
Blue lights like on westwing it's a regimental thing
and everywhere you go a thousand people need to know
you're on show, and oh how good it feels

making a claptrap racket, filling up pockets and packets
with black looks and padded jackets

It's the wound of not being recognised. Poor motherless children
they run around your feet, banging that old beatup bucket

There is nothing to replace the winner of this race
the smile upon the face, day of glory, paperchase

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I'm not sure it's finished, and maybe it is really a song, but that doesn't really matter. It doesn't have to be finished, or held up to factual scrutiny. I do not have to fit my writing anymore into formats of political analyis or reporting, and having for 4 weeks put the revolution at the disposal of poetry, I am now happy to leave the revolution where it is and enjoy for a while the poetry of London in Spring.

This month, I will be unwinding.