I’m that guyWho’s a sour noteThat sinks deep belowSuch ascending cadences. I’m that guyWho is a shitload of fuckThat shares a planet withFuckloads of shitI’m that guyWhose blindness cannot be curedWith mud slinged in eyesAlready tinted with brownI’m that guyWho facepalms wheneverGod’s precious little angelShares herself with thatintention.I’m that guyWhose insomnia is legendaryFor believing that the moonWill swallow us allI’m that guyWho crouches down betweenDissident friends partingEvery which wayI’m that guy Who plucks petals off flowersFor incense, ‘cause they smellbetterEngulfed in fiery passionI’m that guyWho strides in the snowUnscathed because no frostIs colder than regretI’m that guyWho hates the newsBecause killing, destroying,****** and stealingIsn’t exactly new.And when time itselfTransfixes its body Away from our existence;That’s when I’ll slump overAnd shut my eyes, just becauseI’m that guy. -Juan Carlos Gomez   

(with apologies to Gil Scott-Heron)

You will have to stay home, sister.
You will charge up, tune in, drop out of all activities.
You will scroll through memes, trawl the news,
Skip the tea, you're running low.

The epidemic will be endlessly televised.

The epidemic will be brought to you in a trillion parts,
With declining commercial interruption.

The epidemic will show you pictures of Trump and Boris blithering,
Dreaming of fried chicken at the end of televisation,
"Oka-a-ay...".
"You are a terrible reporter!"

NHS-badged Hancock will look the part,
But cannot answer the question
Should I look after my sick self-isolated seventyish neighbour?

Fauci facepalms
And is gone.

Watch out, guys.
The epidemic will be televised.

The Epidemic (starring Tom Hanks) will not be brought to you on the big screen.
There will be no big screen.
The Epidemic will not play Glasto
Lit by 300,000 Androids.

The epidemic will be brought to you by friends and strangers.
The epidemic will be televised.

The epidemic will not inject fat into your posterior.
You will not need to shave or deodorise.
As it turns out, you are not worth that expensive holiday.
The epidemic will make you a bedroom star
Vlogging your incarceration to ten followers.

The epidemic will be televised.

There will be pictures of coughing queues at supermarkets
Toilet roll riots, thermometer wars.
There will be pictures of you and your best mate
Pushing that cart down the block,
Packed with Branston Pickle baked beans
Though you posted fifty times online about hoarding.
You will not have dressed for the occasion.

You will not care who wins Love Island.
You will not care who wins The Great British Bake Off.
Eastenders will be cancelled
After 35 years of continuous drama.

You will dodge the police for a quiet walk
On a brighter day.

The epidemic will be televised.

Reporters will cough.
Ministers will be replaced
Suddenly
Parliament will be suspended.
Politics will cease to be televised.

The epidemic will be right back, after a message.

You will have to worry about a germ in your bathroom,
Your food supply, the tiger in your tank, your loved ones,
Whether, if you cease to breathe, there will be a ventilator.

You will consider getting in the driver's seat.
Where to go?

Would you like to see your mother?
Would you like to cross a border?

The Caravan Park is occupied
By the Military.

Slowly, slowly
The screens will darken.

The epidemic will no longer be televised.

The Epidemic is not a game.  You cannot return to a previous Save.

The epidemic is live.

is starting to do
running leaps
at my uvula

from bile pool below
where it's been stewing
for quite some time

it's going to latch on
real good and tight
with white-knuckle fists
one of these days

and herald in
songs of sorrowful
karmic oneness

(and hopefully
some laughter
at the absurdity
ushering humility
with eyes wide
seeing through
the slits in salted
facepalms)

and lessons
oh my, the lessons...

#1 = we are the creators

of our hells
and our heavens

I fell for your warm eyes
And inviting smile
But I stayed to appease the pit that formed in my chest
The aching longing that grumbled angrily
Like a dormant monster when we were apart

But when I got handsy
You pushed me away
Left me hooked on a drug I couldn’t partake in
A sensation I could never truly experience

Our love was a mistake
Free from the fever dream,
I’m plagued by a supercut of facepalms
And quivering lips

What I assumed was intimacy
Was simply infatuation
So I fled
Oblivious to your shadow hanging over me

Where I ran
Your presence followed
A restless wind trailing after me
Never letting me forget it’s there
Slipping between my fingers
Running through my clothes
Sitting heavy on my lips
So every subsequent relationship
Was saturated by your memory