So, You Lost Too

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 Great Britain out,

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.