Who’s The Man?

Who asked you to do this thing on our behalves?

To add into the leaf and plant the animal flesh and bone

Who set your sure permissions to such lordly privilege?

And whoso runs the motor of your arduous heat-engine?


Answer: Your master calls (the tune); Financier

Backer, Patron, call him what you will, but Master is;

And Master so he does (a he, a she; see, you’re included!)

A power precentor among resources, haut and high of hand


And vaster in good confidence than understanding warrants

Sacred atop a crown’s self-estimation

Who says he knows what’s good for us, his business,

Without ever having asked


Things going down go on before our lazy summonsed eye

Rings, swings; thin kindergarten things, do trespass entertaining

To our distraction:

An eye like Sauron’s, overseeing, has levelled all to puerile


When was that plebiscite (the sting bites in the term)

Which haply voted sugar-coated packaging

Plethora plastic plumes, bulk-up, deceive the sight,

Move glassy common eyes to side with promise, glamour’s lure


And other common cute designs to sell the common “goods”

(Misnomer?) – smarty party-tricks; The Gypsy-Switch is as fancy;

Designs on heedless shoppers snare them – then the garbage trucks

Recycling wastrel gamey “goods” load landfill’s tinsel fanes


Who are the guys, certain in pride, who lock us in such states?

Wiseacres by ascendancy combine; presumptuous as Fates,

From eyries atop the tree observe, foreclose, on every branch,

As fairies at every garden’s-end incanting leap rain-dance


Take avatars who buy up futures (now, that’s irony!)

Settling our hashes presciently by sign-divining

Peering along the years to come, against drear misted curtains

And on such wagers seek to mine our wellbeings


Even before we have them, sometimes coffee is not set

Laid in the ground, nor woodland cleared, deforested;

You who pursue a brew at half past two, a cue, beware

It has this cast upon it


Such sway parade these stalwarts on our dancing ship

Tossing the waters; heaving out drear drift-nets deftly pitching them

Straining whale-road ecosystems scouring deep ocean floors

Scavenge the bottom seas to any profit or advantage


Thence buddied-up with bankers – whence derives the money

Divided to lay out on sunshine-trafficking adventures

Here’s the fun, trembling speculations, drawing off percentage

At each point down the line


We small-fry haul our chains of weight, whose ease would strait to shipwreck;

The while high honoraries in name and reputation

Smooth-off ungodly tithes as styled-correct prognostications;

‘Time will provide the goods – our cunning make it so!’


Rune-casters, no! …these back us in a box….imposters,

Yes, wide-boys

Patch-up, make-do-and-mend, redactors: No, that’s far too grand

Above their wits and honour, whose discernment gropes;


They are scissors to common hope; astute distrainers

“We would see in the dark an inch into a fir deal”

This their dinner-party piece, pride of place as propaganda

These funfair raconteurs at work bedazzle by dioramas


Creatures like these should know a care for where we’re going

Steered by sheer appetites to wring the years and years to come,

There’s no smooth tongue Big Brother, just a trough and froth and lather

Where drinks celestial rancid surface bloom


There’s no Shogun who authorises, or Caesar of account,

Fortune might be responsible? …….And they about, about,

Pursue a chain of troughs, slop-buckets reeling,

Repast, and bucks a-plenty being passed,

Fault filtered at the mouth.


But where, aware, is Holy Ground?……

To let, vacated, terra quod conturbat,

Shoals, populations wear out means, fear helplessly,

Pace in their rooms with weight, unthinking, vagrantly:

Estragons, Vladimirs


Behold, a wheel of fire turns blazing as like ocean ridge

Fires emanate good easement from resistless depth

In carousel cartwheels, revolves, resolves to metanioa;

A creed without need to bar your door unfastens


Even so, come Lord Jesus; bring in Glory, Moment, Word,

Bring in all things to all men, fashioning levelling hearts

For all that, an’ all that, Love’s a muckle, sonsie, gallant:

’Cause I’m talking about Jerusalem

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