You’ll have noticed. It’s slipping away. Barely a news item now. A brief clip of the devastation, then reversion to ‘informed’ interviews and comment.
Will there, won’t there, be a ceasefire? Who rejects a ceasefire? Who accepts a ceasefire?
Like a tennis match, back and forth, the ball soaked in blood and viscera, spraying the players, though somehow odourless and invisible to them, even under reality’s harsh light.
All our words turn to cliché, even those that say ‘all our words turn to cliche’, a sentence that somehow consumes itself.
Like a dumbshow, the sound of our chants and slogans are unheard, unheeded. Yet in our numbers, across continents, across the world, we march, calling ‘halt’.
Yet where ‘halt’ should be, there is its negation: Permission to continue. The limbs of the dead and dying, stoking the fires of continuity.
What we see, should not be possible to do.
Biden, Blinkin, Lammy, Starmer icons of shame, colluders with a befouled regime.
Under the guise of fire-fighter, travelling back and forth to the conflagration, they weave words, but carry no water to quench the flames.
Bernard Spiegal 
Leave a comment