Pandemic I. Staring at the empty screens Of all our ineptitudes, Our demons whetting whistles, Our joints atrophied.
Staring at the walls – Surely not the news. Can’t bear to look at a mirror anymore. There’s something deeply unpleasant Growling back.
Or the pub across the street with its Christmas lights burning, And the bar dark as the world was at night Before we killed it with our fire.
II. A million hours and a million monkeys With half-baked ideas and reddening eyes All trying to pen the next dime novel: Pandemonium or Apocalypse Today, Praying pulp doesn’t pulp before being read or read about By the tired eyes and hands counting Cheddar and pages and hours, Until we all clock out.
My contribution to a dying ocean of death – At least that’s what Bo reckoned (Among many others drowning) Is a journey through childhood And wannabe streams of King and ‘cuntry.’
The old post-colonial riddle: Can we be sorry for what we’ve done? Endless masks thrown to the ground Amongst self-respect and science and what Used to be described as thought and thinking. At least that’s what we kid ourselves.
Civilisation was never particularly civil.
III. Start making the tin foil hats – We won’t be leaving the house anytime soon. We’ve a television series to finish scribing – Eight years down and surely eight more to go. There’s a four-hour silent French movie to watch And what about your vegan friend – Who hasn’t finished his journey to salvation yet?
There’s an endless stream of distractions to go: You’ve read twenty-five books so far – And it’s just gone July. There’s an endless stream of desperation And an endless stream of angst And an endless stream of nothing And death is just the beginning Of Your Nothing.
And as the bard rightly charged: “Here ain’t no place for dolls like you and me. Everybody’s on a barge Floating down the endless stream of great TV.”
So among the burning, we find a seat, Nestle into that newly worn spot on the couch And pretend we’re not there.