Today, I have lost faith in so many things. The internet, for one. Due to a big panic tonight, it has gotten far too late to get into properly right now given it is almost 2am but I have started on an essay at just how vile this new society is. As a teaser for what will be covered in this essay, here are some key words:
- Joss Whedon
- Sue Perkins
- Internet bullying in general
- Facebook as the most useless of ways of keeping connected
There will be more things covered but I am fairly full of ire and disgust. Not just at these things.
Tonight, we found out that someone has been bad-mouthing us in the Manchester poetry community. They have been saying that at our events and weekly group for Do The Write Thing, we do nothing but rip people’s work apart and make them feel unwelcome. I don’t know why they have been saying these things, but they have and it’s hurtful. It’s piss-annoying. Born out of jealousy? Quite probably. It would be really easy to to wonder why we are bothering if people are doing that but it has shored up my resolve to try and take things bigger and better than we are now and to keep going and growing.
Think of what we are doing as a wimberry pie. We like wimberrys. They are tasty goodness. What we are doing with the magazine and the group is trying to make the biggest, tastiest wimberry pie we possibly can, filled with the wimberrys of wonderful poetry and connections to other wonderful proponents of wonderful poetry. Unfortunately, if you source enough ingredients en masse, they are always going to be a few bad ones. Indeed, in this great big bag of plump, juicy wimberrys, we have found, right at the bottom, a complete and utter cunt.
Here is a poem.
Dig the hole and make it deep
line it with bodies and let them steep
in the flames of their sins for eternity.
Your brothers are not yours to keep.
Till the earth and sow the seeds
to repent for your misdeeds.
Use the dead to help them grow.
Dig your holes and follow their lead.
Reap the crops and feed the poor
with the poison and lock their doors.
Be sure to check that they are dead
This poverty we do abhor.
Beat them as they line the gutters,
Punish every single utterance
of cries and moans about their fate.
Make sure that it’s your boot they’re under.
Break the chains and salt the ground.
Let your protests ring out loud
against all those who would oppress us.
Every fate can be turned around.
Grow the poison, feed it well
in the valleys, on the fells.
Dig the holes and save the souls.
Do not let the uprising be quelled.
Capture the rich. Let them dig their holes.
Their sins are too burdensome for their souls.
Save our brothers. They’re ours to keep.
Their fires lick the devil’s gold.