An Open Address to Iain Duncan Smith (April 3, 2013)
“Blow wind made strong with spite;
When thou hast puft the greater light,
Thy lesser spark may shine, and warm the new-made night.”
Francis Quarles: Emblems (Book 2:i) 1635
So, this idiot with a face like a baby’s arse
trims the thin candles of an imaginary skiving class
to douse the fires under his own accounts.
For what could inspire us more, or make work pay,
better than eight hour shifts ending in poverty?
Your Argos catalogue might inflame weak desire
but your storeroom’s empty and the debt climbs higher.
See, your unthrifty bonfire of our dignity and pay
consumes all the growth you’ll need one day –
in cutting others’ rights, you’ve spent out your own.
But like a masturbator, telling us all to stay clear of lust,
you’ve loaded your laptop with hard-core smut,
spunked more on tissues than you’d have spent on life.
Take your pleasures, then, and have your laugh.
Go wantons, hypocrites, arse-faced baboons!
You’ve got newspaper headlines playing all your tunes,
might keep it dark yet for a year or two more.
But you’re mortal, and knowing how things can change
we note all your wealth’s held in frail currencies:
stand under all the gilt chandeliers you please,
the warm light you’re thieving is basically ours.
Join hands, David Cameron, Tony Blair, IDS,
style your hair and nails neatly, Mr Clegg, George Osborne.
We all know how soon your breaths will expire
and trust the mess you’ve made won’t be spreading far.
We know laws can be changed and shit-stains washed,
stair-wells made steep and arseholes pushed:
we pray you’ll live to see this toilet flushed.
Till then, please relish that long Stygian Night
you’ve bodged together from cardboard by candle-light.
You’ve pissed on one taper, held up your own,
found it too feeble to make any useful flame,
belched this fog instead, where you’ve carved your names.
Jimmy Savile, Ceaucescu, both rich big-shots once,
now lie in their graves, exposed as foul runts.
But your hands look busy as they sign off the deeds
downgrading flower-beds to fields of weeds,
pretending a thorn bush is a comfortable bed,
spinning sewers of intention from that moral high ground
where your place in history won’t be found.
So blow your hot air, fill the very sky with this shit:
we all know there’s a future: and you aren’t in it.
Note: More on the bottomless pit of idiocy and incompetence that is Duncan Smith’s DWP is now live at Fit For Work: Poets Against Atos (edited by Mark Burnhope, Sophie Mayer and Daniel Sluman). Recommended.