The best of post-war hip:
blowing the bastards to bits
with sand, surf and bodies in abundance
while flashing lights add to the effect
and keep a clamp-down on the cowboys
who are falling asleep at the wheel
a familiar sight of the capital
where desperate people do terrible things;
anything to challenge, anything to annoy,
but the dick joke will only take you so far
and the former queen of kookiness
only ever goes shopping in a stretch limo
she is a celebrity ripe for celebration
in the land where lenses never sleep
in the hands of psychotic thugs with mother fixations
looking above the pylons, to the bleakness
but environment isn’t the whole story
when the hippest club in the world
is linked to a higher source of knowledge
If in doubt be daring:
install plastic madonnas and ghost train seating
eroded and replaced by phoney vernacular
devoted to the king of rock’n’roll
who remembers the worst aspects of the time;
that post-war spirit of optimism
wasted lazing beneath sleepy palms
in the vaulted undercroft
which gives life to inanimate scrap material
at independent, self programming venues
placing the product so distant from the process
that anarchists with hearts of gold
become perpetrators of the new graphics
depicting a physical, psychological, but passionless struggle
where something banal is sent up rotten
by an artful and complex romp
broadcast at peak suicide time
in the minimally chic surroundings
of an abstract electronic dance
Ideal Home-Sweet-Home style:
trance tunes on the dance floor
rely on the phrasing rather than the ideas
to launch a full frontal assault on racism
improvised from your suggestions
taken from the spiritual elements of martial arts
in which the play was human history
and far more than a home movie
about praying for the Depression to end
while fighting a murkily obscure battle to the death
in the smoke at the edge of the rain-forest
saying never say Neverland again
to sex and the Yankee dollar
in the pockets of the date-rapist from Hell
behind a blank wall of corporate secrecy
with the phantoms of an ill-informed imagination
and the machinations of an outlawed movement
like a monochrome movie poem
provide welcome relief from techno fever
