I found myself
singing at the sites of solutions
soliloquies sounding the sight of revolution
over the hills but no so far away
waiting for the everyday to become today.
I found you there too
marching in a mariachi band of popular protest
prophesying an end to all this distress:
we undressed and stood naked in the moonlight
before we realised it was cold
and that we’d given our neighbours a fright.
On and on and on we repeated our listening habits
nodding approvingly at giveaways and gambits.
Filthy fanged rabbits dangled dead in front of our faces
by liars and cheats
by classists and racists.
So on today rolls and as each one unfolds
with the streams we expect of opinions we’re told.
We can’t move the window
of when we’re told to be free
so what seems to be good
seems the end of being me.
Words create me and words destroy me;
daily, hourly, minutely.
They build me and maintain me,
paint me, repair me,
bodge me, change me and still
I’ll never be finished.
Book of Pye 