The butterfly's pledge

We were butterflies, for a time.

Our Saltires were our wings.
Our sunlit banners flew
in the kingdoms of the air.
We were proud custodians
of the highest hopes.

We were free, for a time,
and shared a common joy.
The bright summer sun rose high 

over George Square, which, for a time,
we made the precinct of the unicorn.

We were butterflies.

But now winter approaches.

A chill breeze stiffens our wings,
made heavy, turned to blades of ice,
and gravity takes its toll.
Other colours are laid
over and upon our flag.
Our bright hopes decline
like the winter sun.

We walk among the sepulchres
of our illustrious predecessors
to find that humble, remote, 

unmarked plot
where we can inter Hope.

In the summer
the tombstones themselves
seemed to have thawed 
and been transformed
by our high hopes
into bright pillars of light,
to mark the historic threshold
where heroes of the future and the past 

would finally meet

in the accomplishment of a common dream

Now our hearts,
which throbbed so fast together
within the shared rhythms 

of the summer sun,
are themselves turned to silent
still snow-capped stones,
isolated from each other
in the graveyard of Hope
We find we have become
the mute monuments
we ourselves visited
only yesterday.

We speak now
only with the whispered voice of ghosts
to those who cannot understand
our grief and desolation.
Once we hoped
to loudly summon
a new and better future,
a brave new reality.
Cold winds sweep and heap 

our whispers together in drifts

to be casually ploughed aside
by all we once stood firmly against.

But we can still raise
even the faintest voice
and make an iron pledge.

Even if no-one else will hear
we can make it to ourselves.

And if heard all together
those voices will form a shout,
a howl, a resounding holler
that cannot be ignored. 

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
We will retrieve the orb of hope we bury today,
once our grief passes beyond the winter solstice,
and breathe upon it and polish it with our sleeves

until it shines with renewed brightness,
and proudly carry and care for it once more.

These butterflies can rise again
on razor wings, and escape
from all nets cast against them.
They will find their erratic way
through every detour and collision
and they will achieve their destiny.

And as the snows of winter melt
beneath the refulgent sun,
the chrysalis will crack,
and we will see
a new generation of butterflies
resting upon the tombs
of last year's hopes
before taking to the air once more.

Where were you when Labour died?

Where were you when Labour died,

crushed beneath some Tory lies,

dancing to a Tory tune,

like a clown in a cartoon?

Where were you when Labour died,

fighting for the other side,

trying to hold back the tide,

to appease the Tories' pride?

Where were you when Labour died,

twisted and unrecognised,

inside out and round and round,

back to front and upside down?

Hold your breath until you faint,

bind yourself in tight restraint,

let your lies betray your mission,

like a Labour politician.

The kitchen sink

Hidden in a secret vault beneath Whitehall there is an antique piece of porcelain. It doesn't often see the light of day. It is taken out only as a last resort. But David Cameron has given instructions for it to be brought up. It is the kitchen sink, and we are about to see the British State dust it off and throw it into the Scottish Independence debate.

There are two taps on it, one labelled "threats" and one labelled "promises". We will see both thrown fully open in the next few days and all manner of stuff will come flooding out. Commentators in the media will gasp in awe at the marvellous effusions, and will do their best to persuade us to accept it.

But in the final analysis they won't be able to fool us. We will find we are compelled to turn our noses up at it, because the plumbing for this kitchen sink connects its taps not to a supply of clear, clean water, but directly to the sewers of Westminster.

Don't make history, break history.

I don't care how you vote.

I will admit that at one level I do want you to agree with me, to validate my own beliefs, provide me with an opportunity to belong to a group, and, of course, because I sincerely believe my opinion represents the best course of action.

But at a more fundamental level I don't care about that, I care about something else instead.

You have a personal decision to make and the quality of our democracy depends upon the authenticity of your choice. We have heard a lot of talk about the chance to "make history", about the "historic decision" we are making, and appeals to our "shared history" and so on.

But history doesn't happen because of the decisions people make. History is what you get when people don't make decisions. History is what happens when people follow the path of least resistance, go with the flow, and succumb to inauthentic decisions that are not based on genuine assessments of their own circumstances and motivations, but are merely excuses to accept one of a variety of options that have been prepared for them in advance. The orderly progress, the apparent logic, that emerges from this process is the "mask of chaos" and only antidemocratic and exploitative interests ultimately thrive under those conditions.

When you vote, I don't want you to act as a tool, a puppet, a victim of history, the instrument of your antecedents and the slave of your successors.

I want you to act as the unlimited individual.

Be undefined and set free by the opportunity to vote in the anonymous solitude of the polling booth. I don't want you to make history, I want you to break history. I want you to leave the future and the past outside and think about who you are when you vote.

Practically speaking, what does this mean?

When discussing the issues, don't gather in large occasional groups to be spectators at gladiatorial contests between professional politicians.

Gather often in small informal groups whose members change and swap around freely. Don't talk, listen. For every word you say, listen to a hundred others. The strength of your argument relies entirely on how thoroughly you have considered the opposite point of view. Be genuinely open to persuasion.

Go off script. Do not reiterate well rehearsed arguments that everyone has heard before. If you can't think of anything new to say, think about yourself, your own circumstances and those of your friends and family. Think about the contribution you make to improving your own circumstances and the circumstances of others and the common efforts you participate in for the wider benefit. Talk about that. Talk about your hopes and fears. Talk about your talents.

Abhor agreement. If you find yourselves in agreement, stop and try and work out what went wrong. All arguments are inadequate, all evidence incomplete, and agreement can easily arise to fulfil desires for validation and belonging. Don't draw conclusions where these are not possible to justify actions motivated by other considerations. Be honest about your motives with each other and yourselves. If agreement does arise, it must only be because it is strictly unavoidable.  

So when you go into the polling booth and cast your vote, your choice will be an outcome of an honest, thorough and genuine appraisal of the options by yourself. But it will also be an honest, insightful, warts-and-all appraisal of yourself. Whatever your decision, it won't be business as usual.

I don't care how you vote. I care why you vote.

Don't make history, break history.