Those mob-mindful
leaders –
your haters –
your righteous orators
have raised
their volume to that
once of The Left
They mop up swathes
of disaffected souls
in insolent heartlands
by underhand sales
of hope on Amazon
Post to Facebook your prizes
And Left-Wing resentments
seem to threaten more
than resolve
as old moderations are now
spoken of as if weaknesses
in politics – else whipped
Extreme measures
are needed
Politics is now a
vomiting disease
I contemplate
setting it all to
Off
(even my
rum scuttle of thoughts
from toils)
By cutting connections
to swealing news
on my device
By undoing clicks
to remove agitation
and find a hermitage –
perhaps a bolted
space
with my tumbler locks
We cannot blunt their knives
We cannot nullify politicians
of any kind –
they who
make us into banshees
and howl monkeys
When that switch
is flicked
you will not hear me
Revox B77 – high or low speed –
from my easier analogue ways
before everything got too fast
DN300 and DN360 graphic EQs
in 19″ racks – screwed and mounted
Even electric drills were rare
I could load a truck – but only after
being shown how to lift and turn
a case in the air
so that rubbed case knuckles fitted –
Tighter than Jan’s crotchless knickers
Sex wasn’t online or easy to understand
when fellow loaders joked – analogue days
Feel a shrivelling suck below –
succumb to being blown-off by intimacies
on an ever-connected held screen
So that is us – We divine our way as we
confound the language of all the earth
with our found blindness before Devices
Chaos undermines old understandings –
it births bastard-moulded disbelief
in shareable clickbait and God’s own tweets
Our too-honest quickened responses
are bilious posts in public places –
there will be no one left to mop them up
We suckle and bite on offered up teats –
on Californians’ buckshee silos –
Son – nothing in this world is for free
We feed as we climb their Tower
Let us scan in wonder its endless steps –
clockwise for right-handed familiarity
We rest in offset echo chambers
and there invite like-minded others
into high rooms with our views of everything
And as we stop between each met level –
without our ground-fill of oxygen –
our fingers are not as effective as before
so we’ll no longer grip our contracted ‘phones –
they will drop and smash on cobblestones
and from their Tower – we will be thrown
Here grandparents struggle
with screen-deprived kids
unsure of the new-fangled rules
on both sides of such fist fights
during lung-asking tantrums
whilst forever doing term time cover
for absent parents – out there –
sipping lattes and checking phones
under nice parasols in London
