Ah, I must disappoint you, Charlie and Nigel. My Intelligence was merely Google. I live a sheltered life by many people's standards and so when I come across somebody within my poetry purlieu whose worldview seems terrifyingly alien, I look them up. "Charles Southerland poem" took me to that place. When I saw that part of the text of the poem had been expressed in almost the same terms in a post on this thread, I thought I had found an example of what Nigel wanted. I seek only to serve and in doing so I often transgress.
Is this a digression from the Trump theme? I think not. I have been following this thread because I want to understand. Trump seems like the antithesis of everything I would wish to support, but the point that Charlie (and John, though he relates his views to Brexit) are making is, to me, the most terrifying aspect of this. That there is a large number of people who truly believe in, and are determined to create, a future that looks to me like hell.
I freely confess I do not have the political vocabulary or the fiscal nous to discuss this on what many would consider a proper level. I am not even fully clear about Leftliness or Rightitude in this context. I am reduced to my own linguistic devices. I have all my life espoused causes that I truly believed would benefit humanity and the planet we inhabit. I worked in the sixties for the PPF, supporting Greenpeace and the CND. Pretty well everything that I believe in is about to be trampled by a regime whose criteria for excellence I simply do not understand.
So I come here to read and attend and listen. I hear John saying “the people have spoken” and the “remoaners” must accept that “we won”. It isn’t so much the “we” that scares me, it’s the extension of the thought to the question. “What, then, are they who are not “we”?
Charlie’s cockroach references appal me. That satisfying crunching sound. The assumption that everyone takes pleasure in it. The headspace of the hunter…
But then I am a superannuated old hippie, who was once proud of having mended a broken snail. There is no place for me in this new world of America (or Britain) First. And I’m pretty sure I don’t want to live in it anyway.
Wotthehell, Charlie. Wotthehell.
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