Kill the horse that bought you here,
eat his hoofs
wear his mane as a fashionable ponytail at a party
for people in the media

where coma patients have been paid
to stand stationary in corners

as some kind of artistic statement –
a metaphor perhaps?

Sit on the veranda and swallow the sunset
swatting away dune-bugs and fireflies.

Feed your neighbours elephant with acid laced buns.

I’m not Jack the Ripper
I’m not Lord Lucan
I am not prolific.
I am not notorious like Harold Shipman.

So please,
sever your ties with good friends and creditors.
Unplug your microwave
introduce the TV to a sledgehammer.
Pop the bread from the toaster.

Never agree with the feedback from surveys.

Graffiti is daubed on the skin of unconscious tramps,
give ‘em a fiver
watch ’em fight
film it
up load it.

The revolution will be digitised and
Tiananmen square was a hologram
a little fact:
the man in front of the tank
he had a Tesco bag clasped in his hand.

I wander what the air tastes like in North Korea?

Goodnight liquid modernity
so long electric eye.


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