The end of the affair
Enoch Powell once said All political careers end in tears.
Well, he should know – although in his case he was more concerned with rivers of blood than a rain of tears. Still, we don’t need to be a Shelley or a Walcott to know that all statues and great houses will, in time, return to dust.
Strangely enough, most modern politicians don’t seem to be aware of these more humbling aspects of all human endeavour – or, more prosaically put, their very own Sell-by Date.
They will spend some quality time on mirror games of nostalgia, worrying about their legacy but they hardly ever plan their actual goodbyes in an orderly (or even sane) manner.
They keep ordering more Hallelujah cocktails, never acknowledging the impatient frowns of the other guests, who’ve grown very tired of these ever more needful noises – or, indeed, not even much aware of their kind Host, who by now is really dying to announce last calls.
In a world where Saviours, even in Their season, can be used to sell carbonated teeth rot, it should not come as a surprise that politicians, like each and every vain movie star, try every gimmick in the book, however distasteful or abusive, to get some extra limelight mileage out of the pathetic vehicles that once were, arguably, promising lives.
In truth, whatever Messianic complexes our modern politicians tend to have, their lives are mostly rounded with the pathos of some starlet, whose one trick body led her to a predictable and tacky ending.
Take it – and them – away, Leonard:
Wish me luck
A fresh spiderweb
billowing
like a spinnaker
across the open window
and here he is
the little master
sailing by
on a thread of milk
wish me luck
admiral
I haven’t finished anything
in a long time
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