Cat Walk

Your frore perfidiousness
has been widely sighted –
Janus-faced – a sour-mouth
denial to your being faithless

Every falsity is perfectly stitched
like your long green winter coat
It cost you a almost a grand –
but in it – you do look dog-cheap

One more label-sucker with cash
paying for sweat-sewn favours
of brow-wept stains of labour –
swiftly removed before it hung

in that so-air-conditioned
West London designer shop
in which you fell in love –
again – with spending pounds

and such a fattening potential
in your Cath Kidston purse
Now my tired wallet thins
by my loss of handsome cash –

my dried-out high tarn
of once-endless funds –
It is no longer filled enough
for your own satisfaction

You wore your virent purchase
to our first mediated meeting –
I swear you were sweating
as you walked out – in green

Radiohead

You tinsel town criers,
signatory luvvies,
calling for the blood
of a band of brothers,

crying out ‘gainst doing
Tel Aviv this time,
because the Israelis
have fucked Palestine.

“Make the contract in dollars
give me everything I need,
fuck the Palestinians,
this gig’s all about me.”

You actors, singers,
and cultured orifices,
would never pander
to such states of attrocities,

you’ll boycott those countries,
you high-and-erudite,
except the fat miscreant,
the U.S of Apartheid.

“Make the contract in dollars,
give me everything I need,
fuck the tribal nations,
this tour’s just about greed.”

You shouters took America
many years ago,
touring that glasshouse,
throwing no stones,

turning your back on
the fucked Indian tribes,
making no fuss
about that genocide.

“Make the letter in italics,
and sign it as one,
let’s lash another artist
with our long luvvy tongue.”