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.