The Dictatorship of the Staircase in the Stately Homes of England
Below stairs:
this is where
above’s tonnage
compresses
our short hard laboured lives –
that sheer weight
of dull-shine freight,
furnishings so solid,
so clagged with privilege
that our ceilings groan
with an old smothered darkness,
our eyes dimmed
in shadows thrown
from haughty portraits.
We graft night and day
to keep the stodge of power
churning its stiffening stodge
of cold clotted presumption.
Down here,
where the cogs turn,
greased with servile sweat,
we perfect our forelock tugs
and our am dram curtseys,
letting the fears and resents
bubble to safety
in thick broths of humour
laced with bitter moments
when we turn on each other.
Up there,
where processions never end,
our betters fart and fuck
and shit and piss
in privied denial,
anointed by divine right
and right place right time
right heritage births.
Their faces change
and there is variety
in the stench of their farts,
but their high ceilings
go on for ever
and ever.
One day the world
will be nostalgic for all this –
foolishly –
for there is no change
in this dictatorship of the staircase.
Ted Eames, 2022