Ally Pally
some maniac lit the light, blue touchpaper,
removed the head, but kept the rest for later
poked around in the sacrificial goat’s entrails,
read the tea leaves, threw the bones,
sent the fireworks rocketing across the sky -
how far you ask? Well, I’d say how high.
Like how they built London’s people’s palace
to scrape clouds, sandpaper cumulonimbus
or Captain Birdseye scrapped with Findus
over whose fingers actually had more fresh fish
when really neither were fit for any dish
to serve to any King on any royal slice of bread.
This roaring success, torched after 16 days,
then mostly bankrupt, until fat men who played
darts, shot arrows right through them and stay
while your general audiences, getting pissed,
chants stand up, stand up; boring, boring table,
while sportsmen lob missiles - if they’re able
and they broadcast this slop to a sickened world.
I’m getting messages from some several girls,
of life and times behind me now, they say you ok?
Ah yes, I remember we did the hokey-cokey
some years from now, it’s either too late
to care, too late to wave, too late to say I’m here,
because I put that world behind me, dear.
Me? I just scream with boredom, frustration -
not that knock-off Ludo with the no cheating dice,
I’m watching them stockpiling water, buying rice,
preparing for an oncoming storm that never comes
and seething here under the racing sun.
Ah, Alison – she’s an answer looking for a question.
Well, let me send you a few suggestions.
