The Sky is Blue.

The Sky is Blue.

By Randall Stephen Hall. © 21.10.15

A response to the recent report on paramilitaries.

The sky is blue.

Rivers are wet

Theresa Villers has dark hair.

The grass at Stormont is green.

And the leaves shed their leaves

Like lost votes for a creative peace.

Money talks.

People walk in and out of government.

While hosts of us shake our heads

And beg to ask the question . . .

What has this paramilitary report cost us?

Merely old news on new toilet paper.

Violent men do violent things.

That’s pretty obviolus.

The different wings of this turkey

This dead in the water Dodo

Remain organised and retain their labels.

While beneath the tables

Our politicians wrestle

With whatever they have to wrestle with

Just to remain in power.

To remain the only men and women

Of the hour.

So here they are once again.

I feel a shower coming on.

They rain, once more, upon our sorry heads

My God, who had the nerve

To kick this ball and watch it swerve . . .

Over the bar, past the post but never

Into the goal mouth?

For the game is fixed.

And our mouths still have no sound.

It’s never about scoring.

It’s all about missing the opportunity

To move on to new ground.

Walking back into power

They plonk their  seats

Back upon these dull stools.

To follow the same old rules

Of “nothing will do nicely, thanks”.

A holding operation.

This corporation of fools.

This blank equation.

The same old train of thought

Puffing at the same old station.

Fit to rule, fit to rule?

Am I just a bloody fool?

Did I hear you right?

You spent all this money

And all this time, to rub this

Political slime in my face?

To tell me what I already know

About paramilitaries?

That they are still there

And nothing has changed?

Catch yourselves on . . .

And all that dough and all that bread.

Promises made and all the things you said.

The money like leaves, still raking it in.

Those big brass necks

Beneath your big stubborn chins.

So we sit dumbfounded.

We cannot believe your prancing ponies.

This Irish and Proddy potato dance.

Like puppets, muppeting in front of us.

As if we will and must

Accept all “youse ones” and all this flush

And ruddy mess like pumping sewage out

At us, I guess?

The sky is blue.

All rivers are wet.

Our children in government play games.

They haven’t grown up yet.

While winter comes on and our branches sag.

Northern Irish politics . . .

It’s such a drag.