The Cashmere Shawl of Oblivious Hypocrisy.

Warm,
comfortable,
offering safe haven to us all,

The fabric soft,
homely,
as we righteously strut around so proud and tall

Wearing our hearts on our sleeves,
indignation gushing through our veins,

tucked warmly away,
in our warmed beds,
sparing not a thought for those left out naked in the icy rains

I’m so self-assured,
knowing I am unlike the rest of the sheep,

I give to charity,
I toss out a few coins to those in the cold,
as I lower the window just a bit,
so long as they don’t smudge the windows of my newly acquired Jeep.

I sit,
I drink tea,
biting down on fresh Croissants,
delicately,
so as not to get the crumbs on my face,

as I rail,
vent,
harrumph,
against the ills of the world,

the greedy corporations,
the imperialist forces,
the religious fanatics,
the corrupt,
almost everyone but I,

as I wrap my shawl of hypocrisy tighter still,

anaesthetised in my own headspace.

My hypocrisy stuns me,
renders me mute,

as I pick out new clothes for the very well-clothed,

agonising over just what will look oh-so cute.

My arrogance of plenty sickens me,

deep in my soul,

even as I pull my Cashmere Shawl of oblivious hypocrisy closer still,

feeling I need,
want,
desire,

so much more,

before I can ever feel whole.

I rant and I rave,

I spout platitudes,

I pick and choose my causes so very well,

naturally,

my causes must feed into my imprisoned conscience,

locked away in my mind’s damp cell.

I tire fast of those,

who not unlike myself,

have so much to say about all that they perceive to be wrong,

and still I hug my shawl of hypocrisy,

while I order my double-espresso,

hell,

I enjoy my Italian coffee strong.

I roam this world feeling self-righteous and pure,

I’m not like the others,

I have a heart,
a social conscience,

and I offer alms to the poor.

The Cashmere Shawl of my not-so oblivious hypocrisy remains my shield,

and I will argue vociferously against governments and business,

and the brute power they wield.

I’m just like you, my brother,

and I’m no different from you, my sister,

we are all alike,

my dearest friends,

you and I,

we’ve perfected the art,
of turning a blind eye,

when in suits us,
we utter not a whimper of protest,

yet,
we demonstrate and intellectualise,

and holler and yell,

always brimming over with pious zest.

Don’t you tire?

fellow people of good conscience,

because I know I do,

feeding our smug self-righteousness,

while we drink fine whiskey,

eat finer lobster,

as we buy and buy and buy and buy,

and date,
and marry,
and screw.

Retail-therapy is good,

I hear myself say,

as I try on the fit,

of my brand-new hand-stitched thousand dollar shoe,

all the while I’m tweeting,

signing petitions,

surfing the social waves,

for someone else I can moan and groan to.

Well, today I’m shedding this warm shawl of cashmere,

while I drag on my cigarette,

and guzzle my cheap beer,

for I’m sick of this cocoon that I’ve so carefully built,

if only I knew,
that the foundation is sitting on silt,

so I beg your pardon,

as I take leave of you fine people today,

because truth be told,

you,
us,
I,

It all makes me sick,

so allow me to cease being offensive,

as I hypocritically (but quick),

slither obliviously away….