They’re all hatching out. All the poisons that lurk in the mud [Claudius in I, Claudius].
You know Munch’s The Scream? Of course you do.
I’m beginning to feel like that guy.
The point being the hands over the ears trying to keep it out.
It being the endless cant, lies, trash, gibberish these politicians are Big Brothering at us day and night from massive great speakers.
“They’re coming to rape our women.”
“nuclear bomb like the one in Cologne”
“The Turks are coming…”
Why would anyone listen to a politician? Ever.
Poets. Now they’re a different story. A whole lot better for us, better for our sanity and general sense of well being.
Thinking this morning of W.B. Yeats’ poem Parnell.
Goes like this.
Parnell
Parnell came down the road, he said to a cheering man: “Ireland shall get her freedom and you still break stone.
Let’s break some stones – get ‘em small enough – that’s not very small – to shove into the gobs of these ghastly politicians. Stopper ‘em up. Cap the blowout.
Let’s do some lit crit, a little bit of elementary first year graduate student glossing.
1. “Our” women. Did he really say “’our’ women”? Were he to try that possessive pronoun formulation on – better watch how I put this – try it on the woman in my life he’d get a swift kick in the goolies. From her. I’d be on the sidelines beaming, “you go, girl” – but with a cold compress to be applied after the message was got across (humanitarian you know). The world made a better place with one short swift kick – i.e., he wouldn’t put it that way again. Bit of trash disposal from our aural environment.
2. “nuclear bomb” Oh puleeeeeeeze
3. “The Turks are coming.” Oh F.O. Who does he think he is, Paul Revere?
What do they think we are? Take it somewhere else, boyo.
Like maybe back to the 16th century. Thinking of – here’s a London Walks moment for you – that 16th century law that outlawed square bullets. Outlawed it because what a square bullet does to a human body is too ghastly even to be visited [“visited?] upon the body of a foe.
Outlawed its use in every instance.
Except against Turks. Wouldn’t be surprised if it was one of “his” ancestors who got the codicil in there.
Stop firing square bullets. Or if you can’t – can’t cut the cant – please point the gun at your own temple. More than happy to help you with the trigger action if you’re too dainty to do it yourself. Public service, you know. Call me Red Adair (or Boots Hansen or Coots Mathews, take your pick). Helping to cap this infernal blowout.
Back to Yeats. Back to my sanity.
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