bullshit speak - Poems

 

“Ode to the Tongue with Nothing to Say”

In marble halls where cameras gleam,
The jesters meet to sell a dream.
With suits well-pressed and hair just right,
They pledge the dawn, and fund the night.

They speak of futures bold and vast,
Of “moving forward, not the past.”
Of “synergies” and “strategic goals,”
While digging deeper fiscal holes.

Their mouths release a velvet fog,
A scripted speech, a mental smog.
“Empowerment,” “growth,” “shared success,”
All words that mean—well—more or less.

They kiss the air with focus groups,
While sipping from their donor soups.
Each phrase rehearsed, each smile designed,
To keep the crowd confused, maligned.

A press corps nods, pens poised and prim,
They write down “truth,” though chances slim.
They dare not say, “This makes no sense,”
For fear of breaking the pretense.

So on we vote, with grave delight,
For jokers dressed in noble white.
The ballot box, our magic trick—
Pick clown A, or pick clown B quick!

And when at last the circus ends,
They leave, with pensions for their friends.
Yet still the show begins anew—
A flag, a slogan, and a queue.

So raise a glass to empty words,
To flying pigs and jargon birds.
For in this land, we clap and cheer,
Each time we’re lied to loud and clear.

“The Language of Fog”

They gather in chambers dressed up like truth,
With silvered tongues and the confidence of youth.
Each word a thread in an unseen net,
A promise made, a promise unmet.

They speak not to say, but to veil and to stall,
To cover the cracks in the parliament wall.
"Security," "progress," "the national good"—
All carved from air, not understood.

The people below still strain to hear,
But meaning fades like breath on a mirror.
What once was a vow now flickers and bends,
Rewritten by aides and framed by friends.

In markets and offices, at kitchen sinks,
We live on the edges of what no one thinks.
Policy comes like weather, unseen,
Dictated by suits behind the screen.

We long for a sentence sharp and clear,
A word that rings like a bell in the ear.
Not “impactful pathways to stakeholder gain,”
But bread, or truth, or the end of pain.

Yet still we vote, and still they rise,
With bright white teeth and practiced eyes.
They do not govern—they perform.
And we, the audience, wait out the storm.

“The Honorable Member for Blah-Blah-Blah”

Good evening folks, now take a seat,
The minister’s here—ain’t that a treat?
He’s got a plan, or maybe two,
One’s half a thought, the other’s poo.

He clears his throat, adjusts his tie,
Says, “Let’s be bold!”—but doesn’t say why.
“We must ensure,” he boldly shouts,
Then mumbles words no one can count.

“We’ll optimize our fiscal flows,
And center equity—God knows.
We’ll fast-track goals and boost our rates,
By holding forums with diverse plates.”

The crowd all claps, but looks confused,
They feel inspired… but slightly bruised.
What did he say? Did he say things?
Was that a policy, or just word-flings?

Next up, a rival with perfect hair,
Says, “This government just doesn’t care!”
He then proceeds to rhyme off crap,
About “Australian dreams” and some budget trap.

He waves his hands and stomps his shoe,
Promising stuff he’ll never do.
“Restore the soul of public trust!”
While shaking hands with a coal-dust crust.

The journo nods and takes it down,
“Strong leadership”—she writes it sound.
She dares not say, “This reeks of fluff,”
She’s got a job, and times are tough.

And so it goes, from speech to spin,
Where losers lose and liars win.
And every four years we pretend
That choosing jesters somehow ends.