No one is perfect

No one is perfect, says the green

distressed T-shirt, as if 

appealing to our 

senses through the pain

of waiting game.

And so it’s true, and I 

accept, and I am the least 

to proclaim the right 

to be seen as perfection 

imbued. 

But where I really take issue

is when you take 

from my life all control

and personal role 

which I feel I do have

write to exert and

impose and maintain

and sustain, whilst you’ve

been

framing my

existence, as if you

truly knew best.

For although I have said

this on occasion 

before, I draw the same

conclusion over and

again: where

you are wrong, dear people,

the people I speak

with,

is in assuming that 

through knowledge you

already have the titled power

which assigns you

the duty to operate 

curiously on 

others who live like myself,

in strange worlds of

puzzling, and ever so

higher

wires.

And if you see we

are different, then don’t 

be fascistic: for it’s 

not perfection I have

ever pursued 

but honesty upfront, right

there and coolly spare.

And if ever again

you want my real 

collaboration, remember 

the grandest virtue 

of liberal 

nation is the apparent and 

unseemly waste 

which dialogue 

brings: not a dialogue of

the madly encrypted,

dear friends, as you 

have conducted my 

awful last few 

years, but a sincerity 

of the rather more 

wisely 

intelligent:

the intelli-

gent of the gentlemen and

women who, in some 

places still, do populate 

this rock, out of 

a desire for justice,

and for the righteousness 

of fight.

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