So, You Lost Too
You say you lost your mistress? Well, good.
I did too; she composed withering lines:
‘Yeah, thanks so much for those times
we had, some of them quite reasonable,
bye, LinkedIn’. Well, fine, I’d rate her
as ‘if you’re not a Slater, see you later’.
Now it sinks slowly in; this dying decade
of sin is behind us, my empty child,
so finito babe, and how’s that for style?
We care even less but bitch more now,
how these ten years hashtagged us cows
steam branded as moo-two; labelled
us unexpected baggage in the item area.
More likely than not due to old bon mots
translating as yeah, more of the same
thank you and had she had her head
turned, that mistress of mine, voted blues
like any really cool quaint girl might do?
Well, why blame her for a house half hung
with a pair of flaccid Brussel sprouts
for afters, then; a parrot and his lager lout
squawk soft shit about
out, Great Britain
quote Kipling’s exceedingly good cake
then shovel their muck to bury the rake.
Doubt she could have danced at their party
where the waltzing was hard to rough:
limping realistically can be hard to pull off
on benefits when there’s only one good leg
beggaring belief; metal walking sticks
are little or less use when beating off pricks
that bar her way, this gentlemen’s league
of one nation minors. Down on hard knees,
sucking seed, spitting greed, or swallowing
it all, one less summer song, ever following
to where they’re stiff whipping an immigrant
picking daffodils, pleading in all innocence
about plucking jobs from baby’s gums
like teats; dashing brains into scum suds,
stunting growth, holding back all hope,
reining in prosperity. Embrace austerity,
set heat seeking missiles to root out looters
in freedom’s name let rioters loose shooters,
the world observes. Towers flaming high
crimson rage, clad cheap in poverty’s cut
price cloth, weak boned skinny children cry
that the lady lies, oh, she lies. Beneath flowers
taking him in, sticky fronts present only backs
to the wall, people that grunt, people that sigh.
You lost your mistress? Well, tough.
I burned worse than you, burned enough.
Cancer wasn’t cured by cruel hand cuffs
chaining us to chopped trees before songs
had a chance to even kiss lips soon gone;
diamond dogs die beneath diamond suns
where she strayed. Left me hanging there rigid;
a two faced beast. Linkedln, no more, no less.
Well bless us, empty souls, well wish and guess:
looking back, or looking forward to happiness.