D’you never get the feeling it’s not all about you?
D’you ever stop squealing that it’s all about you?
It’s just about power, it’s not about you
or Saladin’s best hour. It’s not about you.
With the rage of the Taliban not seeing its own face
in a glass, while between your ears splays a Saharan space,
you’re preening, fleeing years of the stage of history
where class war plays guitar. I realise crystally
the Kremlin-granted sheer size of the Uzbeks and Kazakhs
escapes, as by a gremlin, your implanted minds, you wazzocks!
You whine Red Square rapes you and such wretched suspect rot.
Chechens share your matted prayers, but Latvians do not.
D’you never get the feeling it’s not all about you?
D’you ever stop squealing that it’s all about you?
It’s just about money, it’s not about you,
God or the Easter Bunny. It’s not about you.
The blessed nation is a brothel-toilet full of effluence
with stationed hovels nested on the soil of its affluence
but Saudi’s no less dowdy, chaps, it reeks of spoilt sheikhs who grin,
have bumsex, waffle, make their subjects’ kneecaps boil and rake it in.
If you must do that mission off this coil by noon
then lasso a politician or an oil tycoon,
not a tattooed electrician scoffing sausage off a spoon,
the baboonish ambition of the swastika-and-moon.
I remember booing with a joss-stick-lighting million
agnostics all kazooing, whistling, crying “War is silly!” and
the members showed no sorrow, so, for shame, are we to blame for what
followed? Every quisling in the chambers is the same, there’s not
a chance we’re even severally or partly represented
by these drizzling hollow prancing parties that the state invented,
so stick your fatwah-patois race-hate daggers up your arseholes,
you dick-faced cousin-shaggers with your ticking buzzing parcels!
D’you never get the feeling it’s not all about you?
With your piggy little squealing that it’s all about you?
You ought to try to see more. It’s not about you.
Armenia. Darfur. Timor. It’s not about you.
Comments
Skunk | February 12, 2009 - 23:11
An angry poem for angry times.
Macjoyce | February 13, 2009 - 00:01
It's angry, yes. But I still found the time to try to make every word or strong syllable in both the main verses rhyme with something else. Not that I expect anyone will notice or care. Thanks for reading, Skunk.
www.myspace.com/norwichfacetransplant
FTSE100 | February 13, 2009 - 09:49
Did you notice my new shoes? What about my new hair-do, did you see that? And my skirt, what about that?
Nah, ditten see none of them things, but I fort you looked good, like.
For the reader, if the poem works, no need to analyse why.
For the writer, don't comment on the craftsmanship so that when you do the same thing yourself you can pretend it was all you own idea.
That's my theory, anyway. Nice hair-do Mac! ;)
tcook | February 13, 2009 - 11:58
And bloody good poem too.
Ewan | February 13, 2009 - 12:47
'But I still found the time to try to make every word or strong syllable in both the main verses rhyme with something else. Not that I expect anyone will notice or care.'
Actually, I did notice and I do care: I also think this is a really fine poem. On the other hand, I think your comment above makes you seem a prick. There again, I doubt you'll notice or care that it does so.
Macjoyce | February 13, 2009 - 20:29
You don't seem to realise, Mr Ewanovitch, that the best way to get noticed as an artist is to deliberately be as obnoxious as possible. So no, I don't care, but yes, of course I notice. And it works because ha ha ha, you always fall for it by actually commenting. You even went to the extent of writing a poem about me once, so it's clearly working.
I think it's better combed over to the left, don't you?
www.myspace.com/norwichfacetransplant