clifford frigs himself as pigeons slide into listed buildings,
as he fingers the life support machine of a chav queen,
chav christ, ritual sacrifice. rosy-cheeked and dewy eyed,
weeping about the witch at the bottom of her drive.
on a checkerboard in reverse order i read out loud
the sources of my boredom - morons on forums have
simultaneously decided there is no more art or fashion,
only records that whisper "HOO-ray for satan" if you
spin em arse backwards.
like perry, like gaga, like callahan, like pink.
a fresh assignment lands on his desk as he exposes himself as a poet in progress
as he parts his lips and expresses regret at having never seen the whites of their eyes
only broken bodies after the fact. it's like seeing war rage through a phone camera lens,
blitzkrieg in ten million pixels - "oh the humanity" on the digital zoom.
zoom, zoom, zoom,
zoom, zoom, zoom.
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