Bars roll across TV screens
Their irrelevant progression projecting the dim light into my eyes
Of drab men in suits debating how light should be projected onto the streets,
Me, ten at the time, knew even then they were over-glorified car salesmen.
Years later Americanisation sweeps across my screen as the bars once did,
Still irrelevant the men (some black some with breasts but none black or women)
Chat endlessly about peasant problems.
‘How inconsiderate the living wage is, why should one be paid to exist?’ How philosophical.
The progressive left does a foxtrot with the Queen as old TVs reminisce about back in the day
When ‘the p***y was just laid out’ (in hospital beds surrounded by stuffed toys).
Oedipus giggles at Charles’ attempt at being a warrior, he presents himself not as an enemy
But as an example of ‘why not to disown your kids’.
Photographers take pictures of three-week-old babies to create art,
The baby giggles and drools and shits its lavender pants, ‘This’, the artist proclaims
‘Mimics aristocracy perfectly’ as he proceeds to make an offer to buy the baby
Outright from the mother for three chestnuts and a quick finger.
Potholes are filled with complaints as gas companies fart all over our land,
Fracking f***s up our city centres by polluting them with weekend leftists,
Preaching Marxism to the masses and holding debates between
Harpoist and Grouchoist parties.
Demolished houses make up suburbs leading to picturesque northern life
In a town riddled by rats in red shirts who love the Kop but not so much the Cop.
Meanwhile at the other end tall buildings house men with arses tighter than a US relief force
And with wallets looser than Nick Clegg in the Tory’s bathroom.
Horror films stretch across gigantic T-shirts worn by the most dedicated pop fans of them all.
I watch, disgusted, as country bumpkins make love to modern art,
In an act of pure horror Yoko Ono transforms into a giant three-armed beetle
And takes control of the western hemisphere.
Meanwhile Ukrainians fight for their own country against professional actors with guns,
Angelina Jolie stops the fighting with one smile,
She then proceeds to vanish along with anything stashed in the Ukrainian treasury,
The blame for which is laid upon John Doe the Muslim.
Ancient cave art is gawped at by cultural conservatives,
Meanwhile Plato turns the entire place into a sex dungeon for his puppets,
Westerners marvel at the ideal society of the Greeks before arresting a child rapist,
Alexander the Great protests, he has ‘the backing of his 10-year-old husband’ he says.
A BDSM children’s book is released exclusively for mothers,
This allows for sexual pleasure during breast feeding.
‘Glorified art porn’ is then decisively sexualised by feminists
Who then go on to damn its sexualisation of women.
Many watch amazed as the Second Coming occurs,
As Obama takes his oath the blind public cheer.
Meanwhile in Yemen twenty-one children die, the last thing they hear
Is the (certainly not) US troops blaring ’21 Guns’.
On a Wednesday night mercenaries sell their souls to bourgeois men,
The lay down on silk sheets and moan bittersweet nothings into their ears,
As the American climaxes the UK and France make sure the c** hits the back of their throat,
Meanwhile Germany and the rest of Europe perform a similar ritual.
Beautiful skyscrapers hold no meaning other than their architecture,
As Godzilla destroys them the US cheer,
Fond memories of Hiroshima resurface
And the book On Nagasaki: How to Lose a War in 10 Days! is published.
Revolution comes across the Middle East like a fever,
As the anti-imperialists colonise all of the major players
No real significant change is made
Other than the colour of the Sheik’s underwear.
Socialist Holiday Homes grow in popularity across Israel
As they throw exploding care packages towards Palestine.
Any that reject these glorious presents are deemed anti-Semitic
And are then sent to an all too real ‘Model Dachau’.
Alcoholics Anonymous meetings take place between homeless men in parks,
This self-help is disrupted at intervals by policemen beating them senseless
With their own home-brewed brand of common sense,
Nothing sinks in like a hobo’s skull.
A new intelligentsia is formed overnight;
The artist now a park ranger,
The writer a grocer,
The singer dead.
I sit doubled over self-gratified by tapping away at letters randomly
Pushing enter at intervals to create something so utterly pointless
That one day soon
It may just win a Nobel Prize.
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