I'd be lying

I’d
like
to say
I was there
that my vote counted
for more than broken promises
that I could tell my lovely wife how my job was safe
in the hands of those who eye me with contempt as my pension entitlement looms large
that the structure of our society was not being hammered and chiselled at its very foundation to topple onto our children
but I’d be lying.

I’d
love
to think
it made sense
going to rallies
standing tall against tyranny
that our Union leaders weren’t paid more than MPs
that they cared less about gastronomy than their governmental co-conspirators
and that I wouldn’t wander home feeling less of a man than ever because the words I’d heard and spoken were stolen from yesterday’s newspapers
but I’d be lying.

I
wish
to fuck
for the truth
but it’s just a lie
upon a lie upon a lie
a high-rise burger of burning opiated flesh
that I retch pale on wine endorsing charities to compensate my own skewed sense of guilt
to purge my soul and sweep away the nightmares from my doorstep hopelessly imagining that in some small way I’m making a difference
but I’d be lying.

I
want
to say
I believe
in modernity
that we still have a fighting chance
of snatching success from the gaping jaws of defeat
that the world which evolved from this tiny little island is still there for the guiding
that our captains of industry weren’t the democratic terrorists of ethnic-economic cleansing whose armies destroy the innocent
but I’d be lying.

I
hope
you’re not
still counting
for minor mistakes
in the precise allocation
of syllables on every line of this exercise
because my fingers are sore and I’ve had it with fibbing
instead I’ll burn my britches to drive matters to wild extremity
by sticking my cockled tongue out to amuse the fury of my heart
and it’s true no one will see their own sad reflection as they gawp at me
while I think of the man who stood up to the tank in Tiannamen Square
and quietly shudder at the pretence of my own cheerless disobedience
with the silly idea that I might be willing to dispose of life’s little luxuries
like take-away pizza and long lazy weekends in the country
that I’ll ignore the painstaking processes of elimination
that help me understand this rusty old culture
this broken toy of tradition
this rally of beggars
and be damned
but I’d be lying.