Somebody’s Stolen the Moon
POETRY: America darkly metamorphoses, and the Me is looming close
The darkness is here.
The spotlights are on the fat face
of the Me, and his throne,
whereupon
the Me sucks in his drool
as he governs by whim,
lopping heads off the sunflowers
who don’t turn to him.
We’re trapped by the Me,
in our gloomy cocoons.
A chance has been greedily seized,
opportune.
“That’s mine, never yours!”
Me-tycoon dips his spoon.
And CLICK!
The world’s switched,
the truth is unstitched
as the Me is at large…
His fuse hits the charge…
And somebody’s stolen the moon.
We’re plunged into night,
the twilight has dwindled.
Our eyes wait in vain
for moonlight to be kindled.
Our pathways are shrouded,
our sense jeopardised
as the Me’s hands, unseen
dance in front of our eyes.
“You don’t need the moon,”
says the Me, “Evil ball!
A night-light for
black,
hairy
wild things that crawl!
My lunar harpoons
were the cause of its fall.
I’ll keep the moon safe
(to protect you all).”
With no Me-taken moon,
the gravity’s shifted.
Mendacity’s centred,
our facts are all twisted.
Elected, by men self-selected,
we’re grifted
for greenbacks to gather
among the tightfisted.
The Me waddles forward,
his grip on the handle.
The ratchet tick-ticks,
pulling ropes that a vandal
has greasily looped
round the ankles and necks
of the people who toil
on the pitching ship’s decks.
This Me-Rumpelstiltskin,
with a twist of his claw
is unspinning our gold,
leaves us holding the straw.
Grotesque opportunist,
he’s stolen the moon,
and the goblins dance round him,
they’re singing his tune
as their giant, impoverished minds
turn malign,
they’re naked, they’re primal,
with a lust for decline.
Night-silverless skies
mean we fumble for dawn,
but the morning recedes
as the Me, dripping scorn,
says: “Your vote was to license
the Me-Constitution.
Check the Terms & Conditions,
a Me-substitution!
Two terms? Not my thing!
By a landslide, I’m King!
The state is embracing
the Me-Revolution.”
His lips to the mic,
the Me-buccaneer,
gives a shrug, and a scowl
to spark citizens’ fear.
With the changelings around him
he says, with a leer:
“Now CLICK TO ACCEPT,
or you’re not welcome here.”
THIS POEM IS LIKE DR SEUSS shaking his fist at the sky. As a rural Brit I have no direct experience of 2025 U.S. politics, and certainly no influence on it, but watching from England it feels so ominous. It feels like I’m sleepless under the sheets, anticipating the arrival of a menacing ghost, a presence at the end of the bed who will shake the frame, grab my feet under the comforter. It’s dread.
The folk-memory of Very Bad Things fades away in around four generations, so that people forget what all the laws, institutions, treaties and agreements are guarding against. The ropes slacken. I think that’s what is happening now, and not just in the U.S. People are so trapped by their preconceptions, by the fossilised framework of their world, that when a boldly mendacious figure arises and begins smashing things, people simply cannot conceive of the acts that are being done in their name. Evil slips in through the gaps.
I won’t get my wish, but I’ll put it out there anyway. I wish the world slept peacefully alongside me like a dozing dog, its furry chest rising gently, its warm face pushing under my arms. Right now, I’m wakeful, and there’s a snake.
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Photomontage by me, from shots by Alexander Andrews and Luca on Unsplash.
Brilliant Ian, the “4th generation”, doomed to repeat.
I love the analogy of being snug in bed, (as I am) and fearing and anticipating someone creeping in and grabbing your feet. It’s like a game gone wrong, it was all a bit of naughty fun to start with, but the kids have gone mad.
Absolutely fantastic.