19/09/2013 - YOU BARBARIANS ARE FUTURISTS TOO

You barbarians are futurists too, how motherless of you. Go. A. Way. You. Scummy. Mummy. Mollusc. Baddies. Your world view is now suddenly collapsible, entirely malleable in the right sort of coded hands. One little text and you'll digitise and become a flatulent dog animation on my phone. You've had everything and now you're brushing aside your clubs and excess hair to become an upstanding cog in the Greasy Mechanism of Day After Day. You once told me that your poetry was the streak of sodium that climbs up a tourist's back the moment he or she passes through Heathrow Airport but now I'm inclined to question the validity of such a Machiavellian statement. You operate in words and twist them until they hurt the sensitive nipples of Gawky Funk Students around you. My entire family is involved in the Gawky Funk Movement, my little sister is enraptured with the dancing policies. If you see her you might lose this insane choice you've wrapped yourself up in but then again you do seem rather snug in the citizen setting.  I'll have you know that I was cute once and I did wield a laser sword.

                You've even employed a few of your stragglers to become top-ranking snipers with sights set on curious star formations. If you knock that gas giant out of its orbit, I swear to God you'll get the horns and the filthy underbelly. Nobody wants this walking frame anymore, not since it started talking and learning the big bad wolf terminology. I've become a Fortress of Biting but you, you've become a Dictaphone. Not even a good one either, one that runs on and scratches the tape with unrequited rewinds. You're shape reminds me of a geek I used to know, short and quietly calm in the face of creative indecision. His knees never bent outwards like yours do though. That trip to the glossy magazine didn't do you any favours, any more than I ever did. The plan has failed so I'll let you go as soon as you answer me one question: what did you do with the girl? Did she give up and go back to Brooklyn to bleed radiators? Did she slap the depression right across  the sallow face and then just check the radiators? I've got a feeling your responsible for the pipe trail that follows her around. I've never seen it but I can believe it.

 

                And this is the point where the poet says that truncating the past participle is a hanging offence and that the moron who sharpened your pencils for you during your tentative years was in fact a gnome with a vendetta against your productive future. We both know that this is a mane of a lie, it sits comfortably around the bony head, so comfortably it becomes a regular feature. The real reason you're still making grammatical mistakes is that you aren't you anymore. You've dedicated books to some woman that was parallel to our home life.