Friday, 12 June 2020

Another Flip for Dominic

Another Flip for Dominic

Rules that govern your lives hardly being right
or apply to me at all; prisms forever bend light,
they can be multiversial, because…well, quantum.
It’s all for your own good, I solve those problems
that riff raff never understand, or even really feel
and who breaks a butterfly effect upon a wheel?

Think seventies LP covers; dark sides of moons
filling living rooms, or coal in tubs in bathrooms
if you can, while I tip my hat to the tips of bergs
like ice, baby, every trip taken is one you’d spurn,
stay in, learn…ah, quantum, have you even the wit
to see it’s lockdown, Jim, but not as we know it?

Controversial? No, no, I won’t accept that, I exist
only to become the dominant species. Take risks:
pick up sticks, bang on your shitty saucepan lids,
howl loudly into the dreadful night and be rid
of plague. That’s…quantum - all right for some
with access to sliding doors like mine and run

like a sort of time-slip slip-stream, beyond you.
Did you dream it? Don’t think you haven’t a clue
why you don’t but I do, it’ll cause what small mind
you have to spontaneously combust, in such time
as I’ve watched events jump over the horizon
so…quantum, gone in puffs of smoke and grime

free wheeling across the land 276 miles or more,
warped there and back while you, locked indoors,
being in arrears to society; existential viral threats
crawling from slime up through mountains of debt
won’t burst this Westminster bubble - so applaud
er…quantum, courtesy of your betters and lords.

Don’t see me for dust or clock my light-speeding
past 10,000 I don’t care homes - full of grieving
sons, daughters, those younger tearful front-line
unprecedented testimonies; mine was no crime
I’m only ramping up the, ah…quantum. Driving
responsibly, legally and with integrity. Surviving

famines, floods and plague. Now queue forever
like fuckwits, bang sticks on tin pans together
outside scum alley, watch your old fart zimmer
up and down his garden, and roger that; dither
in your Poundlands, knife each other for bog roll:
quantum. To victors the spoils, the rest, the dole.

It’s for your own good, this 60 parsec round trip
to Barnard Star, my eyesight still giving you gyp
yet still refuse to see it, because, well…quantum
acts blindly, never try to analyse what’s wrong;
choke all plebs, in your bed and brexits sit in shit
voting for another flip of your very own Dominic.

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