Get over it. Move on, but, in the words of Victoria Wood, “Can’t do it. Won’t do it…”
Post-election E-mail: All Trumped up and Nowhere To Go
To: Homo it may concern (once aka sapiens).
Subject: abject, deject, object, reject, eject.
Trump, XY; Clinton, XX.
Trump, X; Clinton, Y not?
Over and out.
It may seem of late that I have gone very quiet, that I have possibly even ceased to be. If so, this is because, having been battered by Brexit, I am now suffering from PTTS (Post-Traumatic Trump Syndrome). I am not alone. Written very much in hangover mode – the morning after the night before – here is my Lament to Last Night’s Legacy
OMG! WTF? Shocked, Shattered and Bewildered Am I
Shiver my timbers! Smack my gob!
You can knock me down with a feather!
I’m deep in shock. I shake and sob
and this time it’s not just the weather.
That takes the biscuit! Well, I’ll be damned!
I’ve crashed down to earth with a bump.
Wednesday I woke with Twitter log-jammed
and I learned that the US chose Trump.
Cor blimey, O’Reilly! Golly, oh gosh!
I’ll go to the foot of our stairs!
Brexit, now Trump. We’re under the cosh.
The future’s kaput and who cares?
Gordon Bennett! Gee Whizz and Cripes!
I’m jiggered! Please no more surprises.
Game over for the old Stars and Stripes
but who’s star will it be that now rises?
Last Thursday afternoon, Zoe Quinlan ran a workshop at the Library for our Macclesfield Creative Writing Group and the subject was “Treat” (as in “Trick or …”) and folk were encouraged to bring along some sweets to eat and pass around during the session. Brilliant! I could only make the second half (when the sweets were being passed around. Aah!) and, with the help of that sugar rush, came up with :-
Fudging the Issue
Fudge, fudge, glorious fudge!
Nothing quite like it from what I can judge.
So follow me, follow.
Beg, steal or borrow
and nibble, then swallow, that glorious fudge!
The texture: silky smooth, as velvet crossed with satin;
the taste: milky, creamy, sugary explosion on the tongue;
the smell: faintest whiff of seduction;
the look: bronzed goddess of sweets;
the subliminal, superlingual, subversive message: EAT ME! EAT ME! EAT ME!