WEASEL WORDS

I don't seem to be able to let this poem be. I've had a couple of goes at writing it over the years but a definite version seems to allude me. It is based on the conceit that an avatar of mine is conjured in the head of the man who sold us all down the river with all the horror that comes with the phrase.

INSIDE THE HEAD OF THE MAN WHO SOLD US ALL DOWN THE RIVER

His weasel words of self aggrandisement

once again conjure me into existence

and I am told where to stand and what to say

His take on our shared history

his reality

mine would be more cutting

But I am a simple iteration

concocted to speak his words that big him up

with a vocabulary I would never have used

Elsewhere on the planet

the actual me gets on with my life

and never thinks of him

My subconscious must still be processing an event from my past. Will it ever produce and acceptable version? This next poem I've revised the third stanza and a number of other lines. Hopefully it reads better.

PRECARIOUS

He served he said

they called him sailor

he’d seen it all when in the navy

and told us so

at every turn of human nature

We worked the same gig

nine months on promises

then just before the big buyout

they let us all go

messaged us the news

Shut up shop and fled

and that was that

the half hinted at rewards

so much empty sugar

Me and him  well

we sat on the platform all night

hoarding what we had left

waiting for the dawn

new day new chances

He told me he’d lasted six whole weeks

never made it past the harbour

bought himself out of the service

and lived his life on the ripple

a stuttering sequence of jobs

Then he asked me

how do you make your way

when the waves rise then topple

how do you stand in a sinking sea

I shook my head

I had no answers

I have to thank the Secret Poets for their assistance in clarifying this poem.

Here's Hurray For The Riff Raff.

Until next time.