Why is here everything - not nothing?

A nice quit-match: “And there was made not anything not made by him”

She errs; he sees not; that may say:

Quite patently the life is vapour: who gainsay

The plausibility, the slant of light of day

Against the night, the might of claiming mighty Nay

As right presented in the choice of will

To grow a garden or to barren sands give till

Assume? - Who says assume? - theirs is the argument -

The godly oddly are their instruments,

That would assume a Maker in sheer impudence

Disposing by a negative before was never done

But all is here; it's evidence – the stars the moon the sun

Go round in circles back to where we just begun

But not Lord Jesus, his cork pulls a stop,

The ruck stops here you need no other shop

You have a world, the word, as cable rope

That hauls you up to heaven; as Milton's golden chain

Spanning the darkness in-between: and then again

The Red Cross Knight whom gently pricking on the plain

Recalls Sir Bedevere and Sir Gawain

And all that story shouldered like the mighty main

Surveyed by Neptune but surveyed by him in vain

As well as beer and Christmas cheer and mistletoe

What else proclaims for Jesus?

The life, the world, the single perfect pearl, perusing here

A sediment of sea-beast in a bivalve shell

The dust of twenty centuries of history

The must imperious; its magisterium

A lust impressed as righteousness too dear to plumb

Goes round one's neck an albatross; but shaped to hope

That caveats brings in longing for that votive rope

Against a Christ assumed: now say, which is the trope?

Let drop an ISA; money, after all, it claims no grounds,

A social fabric intellectually fiction-bound

And what – be you so clever – might in fact be sound?

The very ask conserves itself my meaning

Must amplify; I must supply its ceiling

A roost of birds disturbed, its bruckle nest revealing

A statement is a fumbled flimflam imprecision

We cannot work the words to meet with our decisions

How should such wobble cobble us a 2020 vision?

A beak to seek to speak on partial sentiments

Against the prima-facie suit to show the instruments

Arraign and cast by trine to find no innocence

No jot; ice, adamantine, hard as metal

The wicked of the world have won for you your battle

Have burnt your house, now no abode to settle

The buena vistas all return to brush and brake

The salad days appraise into one ironic mistake

Yet hear: is here and clear the evidence: betake

Streaming Now

Radio, TV media, they have taken him away,

Nor will they tell us where they laid him

No more pianoforte, gatherings voicing mutual song

They use again impromptu as the party tenor trends

Recitation pauses, magic-lantern parlour games

Are carpetbagged by unregarded half-repellent names

Old tiresome entertainments from a dreary era

A time of drawing rooms when network lines were dearer

That trove of cultivation in the home

Inventories of gifts eliciting a tone

A pipe of wood, a voice cathartic trained

To share and bear a burden in intrinsic song

Got commandeered, waylaid, the gnomic muses, reft; all gone

Radio TV drama, media empted all away

Monopolised, monotonised, the erstwhile eager day

Have robbed the empty silences in which to sit, surmise,

Consider depths of being, blink and think, inform the eyes

Our wrest with life that takes a close examination

Statements are prima-facie saccharine

Sentiments verbose, numed toes' sham insulin

Indulging to themselves the health corrupted of the day

As would-be Leaders led by a smouldering bold temerity

A right to fight, to issue riot from the heart's disease

As censure of cast slings: “I think I am best fit to plead

To append discomfort where my air declares, proposes

Myself the Chair, all else a coterie of mere supposes”

Urgent in turn to thrust, to thrash, for progress passim

Bringing in listeners, viewers, here beside me,

I've nothing left to learn

The moulder, the brave ego, slaves its well-wrought-urn

Sets-up, and dedicates to sanct society

Introit whose stooges, scapegoats, victims, vagabonds

Complicit lies whose tastes he's helped to suffer

They will not estimate aright around home-laundry bits

Assail their sorts of therapy which signal all along

The artful massage

Makes bigger mess of people, life, the silver tongue

Excurses with a passive glad gratification

Without removing prickle thistle from a finger

So one no longer has to work to cleanse oneself

No prayer, petition, no contrition, next to God

Examination to repentance circumvented flat

Nor care aware that sin is at the door

Our media under-shakes subverts displaces faith's

Heads-up

Effectively are off-loaders of indignations

Smart frauds - at handing others unconcernedly

A cruse of brassneck poison

Inscribed: “I am your guide” - a travesty

Inscribed as everyone's tenacious cup of tea

The lie “I did it my way” sung as one, voraciously

In cheap-subjective, fugg-subjected confidence

Untried insides - withouten beldame probity

As grumbles rumble underneath - the binding conflicts

Conception-clashes burning, undiscerning cauldrons toil and quake

And burn out others' eyes who take delight to preach

Transfer, project, from a one elect, their imprecisions

Over the ether attributions confer blurbs, omissions

Faults, absurd descants, join-the-dots urbanities of thought

The fare: inamorato mea que perfectos

Bully for you, you magister homo erectus

Who right do know: Cromwellian inhibition

The bowels of Christ will cut no ice with your positions

Yea, - ecce homo – heal thyself, physician!

They say:

“I am command”: in fact this tack protracts: The Man

Folk-fable narrator, director, overseer

The very words anathema to his servile niceness

A short preciseness on the money his Te Deum

Observes that light in others' eyes where he discerns a beam

To be dislodged; the very judge and figure of The bloody Man

To be deceived yet be received a paradigm, and ham

Schedulers' programmes pogrom, interdict the faculties

And sentenced to the chair, set here are shackled martyrdoms

Herded to hear, draw near the good news promulgated

Taking it with no water – neat – indoctrinated?

Now, now, in China dragons mean to do such things

Illiberal, undemotic, not availing of, without,

The stout, redoubt and loutish insolence

Which frames the independence of the Englishman pro-tem

(The Scots, The Welsh, The Irish – let them go their ways)

England’s the global player even in these latter days

Pulp myth the gift of diarrhoetic politicians

Comedic seed dispensaries of rich misprisions

Adoptive journeymen thrum on the radio, TV,

Redactive women burn their bras, but nonetheless agree

Pursue the fable, purveying mendicant mythologies

Assure, masseur, that nothing else will change

Apart from cybernetics, diabetes, and cocaine

Will stay still, like a statue, on a plinth, a holy feign

The feted names of Oxbridge apposite to engineer

Whose levies stoke the fireboxes bleed the reeking tears

Flamed, rained, to keep the kingdom and the master keys

In the pockets of alumni and co-opted fleas

That stab at

And rob us

With a bloody greedy quarrel

Commiserating, overstating status needs must be

Society requires it, that its massed mouths get their feed

And what then? Play The Man, fulfil the five-year plans

Play games on prime TV, oh, England, you're The Man!