Offbeat Fibre Job
The quirk that makes the face sublime,
The synonym that hides the antipode,
The excrement that feeds the columbine,
The little bit of bollock beneath the robe.
In completion, perfection incomplete,
In perfection, perfection undoing.
And the perfection of the perfect beat
Hovers round perfection, ever wooing
A gulf that man as man cannot span,
Except in the yearning need to reach
A need which makes him more than man,
Plunging him, plunging us, into the breach.
In each great truth that e’er man has followed,
There must be something which can’t be swallowed.
Gaviscon for Desecration
The rats regress, even the dogs are thick
From the crowd’s enjoyment of sacrilege.
It’s a relief to return to feeling sick
Cos there’s Gaviscon on top of the fridge.
There’s a dying god shambling through my mind
that shouts obscenities to the youth
Who live in the filth it leaves behind
And take cleaning it up to be their truth.
A sick divinity can be mastered
With information and professional hex
But the moribund god’s a nasty bastard
Before he fades he’ll break their legs.
Like monkeys climbing up bookshelves
They’ll bring facts down upon their selves.
More than a meal, a fugitive treasure
A box, a burger, some bits of chicken.
Oh! Remnants of refugee pleasure,
That claims, once a day, a million victims.
The heart leaps, a little plastic toy
At a really very reasonable price;
But the happy meal has plans to destroy
Your body, your world, your entire life.
Resist! Resist! Resist the happy meal!
Smash it to pieces with a cricket bat,
Unite together and together we’ll
Engage the happy meal in armed combat.
We are happy, now the happy meal is dead
A sadder meal that feeds us lives, instead.