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 The Scent That Captures That "1930s Moment"!

All material copyrighted to © 2014

or to the various credited sources © 2014

...To forensically excavate suspicious-looking correspondences

Amid commonplace brown DWP envelopes, ripe pickings

For steaming open under the kettle’s whistleblowing steam –

Paper trails that indicate the chains of epic fall from Grace…


Motes and beams, motes and beams, it’s all motes and beams;

Ends and means, ends and means, it’s all ends and means;

Votes and memes, votes and memes, it’s just votes and memes…





These days, even the weather behaves figuratively, not so

Much meteorological as metaphorical, contrapuntal to

The brassy ebb and flow of popular mythologies,

Hypnogogic pogroms, persecutory opinions, and violent

Fluctuations of Social Attidue Surveys, for, in the thick

Of the Scroungerological Consensus, on the morning

Of 28th October Twenty-Thirteen, England –especially

The true-blue South-East– is whipped up in a monster-

Storm, a veritable blue funk of fomenting zephyrs

Spiralling into typhoon, stripping slates from the roofs,

Ripping up trees from their roots, the wind is throwing

A monster-tantrum of almost biblical Grand Guignol,

God-gusts of moral indignation, the most indiscriminately

Muscular since the hurricane of ‘Eighty-Seven –and

What have the weather people called this mega-gale?

“St. Jude” –after the Patron Saint of hopeless cases,

Of things almost despaired of, or, more poetically,

Patron Saint of the Impossible –epithets attributed

By Roman Catholics in veneration to the rumoured

Brother of Christ, whose benevolence for underdogs is

Invoked through prayer: Saint Jude, worker of Miracles,

Pray for us, Saint Jude helper and keeper of the hopeless,

Pray for us –and surely this prayer is never more in need

Of an answer in this time of imposed despair and

Destitution thrown at the afflicted, sick, unemployed,

Exploited, tramp and pariah, in plagues of rhetorical

Locusts from the Houses of Plutocrats; what have

The victims of cuts and caps, the dignity-stripped

Coupon-customers of food banks, supplicants of soup

Kitchens’ ladeled-out bowls of stigmatic broths spiced

With soupcons of Scroungerphobia, the pellet-pelted

Pheasants of fiscal consolidation and deficit reduction

To lose in the absence of compassionate auspices and

State assistance but to make appeal to higher powers,

And who better to patron their causes but Jude of hopeless

Causes, soterioloigcal granter of capped Angelical Aid…?



But if St Jude is a judgement on the consequences

Of “scrounger”-rhetoric which has no compunction

In shutting the door on itinerant outsiders travelled

Far by knee-knocking donkey, “something-for-nothing” stable-

“Squatters” asking for a shelter for just one night, until

The storm blows over, then it’s a cryptic comeuppance,

Since the No-place-at-the-Inn proctors are the propertied

(And multi-propertied), the Buy-to-Bet collectors of stucco

Empties, who forgive no trespassers, are safely tucked

Under douves in their posh maisonettes and penthouse suites,

Snugly ear-plugged to the angry gusts St Jude throws against

Their unChristian intransigence –while the hurricane

Claims its only victims among the shelterless rejected,

Street-ejected, limpet-clinging to the slippery rockpools

Of shop porchways; religion is always deeply mystifying

In terms of rational comprehension, so, strangely,

It almost seems inkeeping with God’s mysterious ways

That St Jude’s own constituents should have to be half-

Drowned in order to be saved, while the antagonists

Of this benefactor of the poor and dumped-upon appear

To blithely ride the storm –but ours not to reason why, ours

Just to witness in sprung rhyme, for there’s little doubt

That such riddling ironies ring of the double-speak that

Enigmatically oils the Bible’s slippery proverbs, particularly

The aphorisms of the New Testament’s compassionate stings…





So, it’s only fitting that the weather in these eschatological

Days behaves figuratively, one might almost say, politically,

A meterological interpolation in a debate which has long

Gone past any reasonable phraseology or acceptable

Packaging, but has spiralled into a storm of recrimination,

Stigmatisation and dysphemic pathology whipped up by

The hate-inducing currents of Tory and red-top winds,

Gales of stigmatisation –and as the pugilistic late October

Gusts muscle in and pull no punches as they swing

And spin the rattling sign outside Mike Weatherley MP’s

Constituency keyhole surgery, did he think at all on all

Those would-be “squatters” evicted from the empty gaping

Properties of crumbling honeycombed stucco, shaken to

The roots on that late autumn morning, ground like organs

To the tumbling bellows of stormforce through-drafts,

And of where they now might delve out some frantic shelter,

Or, if they cannot, just how far the winds might sling them…?...

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