from Idea’s Mirror:
12
human hair strung on a banjo un-
mute cameras catch subject
formations fiddling one tune while
another burns the world the two-faced fan
of Brexit eyeballs Erdoğan creeping by Bo
in NATO impotence no Euro-Muse
sings the fame of Trump his un-
conscious is a high strung blackbox plinkety-plink
I’m as perfect as Drayton’s muse dictates
chorused goddess of these verses I’ll
cause my cause to survive if he elects me
at post-election dawn as speaker of his house
of words for my heart blows imperfect power
beyond the trumpet of all fame
5th December 2019
13
normal rules do not
apply rituals of public mourning
ennoble Bo’s agendas of hate all I
have is a vote
to loosen the lies in the street my
simple name belies alluring flashes
on my secret shades my rippling breasts
bury the poet’s voice since
the BBC can’t swing it my public
service clarity invites Ice-Block Bo
to perform and prove his promises
at his no-show I empty-line him
[ ]
still they praise his invisible light
9th December 2019
14 The Death of Idea
uncrown my beauty
my sunshine face (and all
the rest) I know I’m drowning
in traumatic realism post-election
sing Big Idea on her ideas gazes
knows she’s Brexpiring
in the heat of Bo’s pearly spume
at the nectarean fountain of his
vanity techno-dogging site
destiny’s divinity ‘got done’
dying laughs a last laugh leaving
I’m transfigured into a bigger idea
shifting an imaginary where I’ll
remain for all eyes to behold
15th December 2019
Robert Sheppard
Photo by Patricia Farrell