SOIL OF THE WORLD

i can feel it
under my boots
up my calves 

like scaffolding 

feel being perched
like a storybook owl
                 on
                 the
                 deep
                 eternal
                 soil
anchored like a bouy
on the soft rock of the world

i can feel its noise 
           its dry breath
           and
           maybe
           i
           feel
           kind 
           of
           sad
     for not being a beautiful bird
                or a manticore treecat
                or a dragon fly
                     forever 
                     sat
                     on 
                     the 
                     rosebush pole
  and
  being
  just
  a
  me 

perched on the soil of the world

  feeling it
  clear 
  as
  hunger or pain

  feeling
  the rich urban peat
  the poor salted earth 
  out
    in 
      the 
        kfc sticks

up to my chin in excess packaging
and
the
silent
countdown

from forcechange.com

SNEER AT ONLY PEOPLE

bus drones / ipad headplugs in
dwarf the plastic seats
with 
KFC gut spill
minds on tech / neu metal
and
stashed porn on encoded hard drives

others / old
natter and chatter and blab
like
mindless 
museum
clockwork / dried up seed
in
underpant folds 

others / young / lives begining / earning / working
are
not
YET
defeated - will forget this bus horror
once
they
got
a hatchback and a license - freedom
before
breeding

ALL wondering where next to splurge
their
distraction nugget-coins / a gifted pat-on-the-back
for
expected / accepted
lifelong
beige 
compliance

from businessinsider.com

FOOLS (TWO)

1. PARROTS

white fools in pimped hatchbacks
pat
themselves
on
their
Super Dry
backs
for talking to Asians in IT
but
Copy and Paste
bad
syntax
sentences
from
dull parents knee-jerk ready-meals
and
from
hysterical newspapers - a staple like milk and kfc   
on
their
chip-oil kitchen tables and morning backseats
till
their
Clipboard is full
and
they
dont 
have
to 
think
at
all 
anymore


2. ABDICATING RESPONSIBILITY

staffroom fools
say

'i dont go up to london - too many blacks'

we call them on it
and
they
whine

'my dad is a racist - i never had a chance'

their
self-awareness a one trick pony
abdicating

they look
shame-faced sometimes
at
how
weak
this
sounds
when
theyre
not
bunkered in the pub with the match on five widescreens
and
their yes-men in pastel polo shirts
top buttons done up tight
pouring
weak 
suds
out
of
four-pint pitchers

from socialistworker.co.uk

ART MANDATE

art 
must stink of ourselves
stink of a week in a tent
with 
spilled booze fermenting and burst dreaming
crumbs and roaches and visitors
and 
cheap dealing
and the looming big moon and the low yellow ill moon
and
all the thick rain
that
ruined everything and hid the stars

art 
must be an unshaved wart
a beer fight
a reckless dangerous running night
caught in amber
in the
sickness and weakness and unapologetic guilt
of 
the bedridden and whining next day

art
must
be simple and readable by all
the
cutlery monkeys
eating 
kfc