It’s Alive (But the Jury’s Sitting)

It’s Alive (But the Jury’s Sitting)

You’d think on viral days they might give it a rest

these early rising double breasted, great crested,

Shrieking Yammer Tits. Dawn chorus sunup clods

you’ll switch on for news with some resigned nod

on know-all day, they backhand dodge every call,

squeezing out paste-board mock up titters for all

stupid enough to enter here. Over it like a rash,

ruin football stats like any stupid hack and dash

out parrot rote cliché, twittering gegenpressers,

interview second rate past-it comedy managers

for kicks and giggles. Look: just piss off, go away,

put a sock in your hole, ruin somebody else’s day,

but no: cut to music, like they’d know a cool set,

recall more seventies stars than you’d ever forget,

wheel in poor misbegotten wet public virus inmate

from handkerchief back garden, giving us updates

about fridging four tins of McEwans Export for him

some sweet Asti-Spumante Lambrini raspberry gin

whipped up in an instant under cheap windbreaks,

leaking tents and piss puddles soon turn into lakes

by a portable telly. Fire up disposable barbecue sets

for a locked down bubble-up, double-up Glasto-fest.

You find this squawking repulsive, then turn it off,

they say, but, no, it’s always there, ears of cloth,

creamed jeans and wet patches, all endlessly fine,

relentless high pitched constantly repellent whines

of gosh, goodness, I’ve lost the page in my script,

into spongy microphones full of dribbles and spit,

toss homebrewed piss-grenades into the crowd,

never knowingly right; never unknowingly loud.