Epochellipse

 Epochellipse

 

Out of time, with little understanding

or belief in our United Kingdom

we who had rioted for the freedom

to bag that extra air mile,

loot the latest shoes, phones, styles

showed you we can do what we want,

conflagrate and smash up shop fronts,

and drag our arses over here.

We Jive Bunnies and Mastermixers,

because that’s what we like:

to swing the mood, party hard,

tug around convoys of hand trucks,

although, in truth, we’d prefer pit ponies,

if only they weren’t put out to pasture.

Acquisitive beasts, we’re territorial,

staking out our plots of land,

pegging down towels by hand,

planting sun loungers by the clump,

in the hope they’ll propagate and grow.

Sometimes sally forth, plant the flag,

walk up and down the drag

looking back on happy smash and grabs,

cheap souvenirs of places we didn’t visit.

You onlookers who grind and grind teeth,

top us up with reconstituted meat,

sell us tacky fridge magnets,

sickly galettes, cheap gifts,

shelter from the oncoming Epochellipse.