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No human is a Brexit, entire of itself,
Everyone is a piece of the internet, a part of the Web, If a line of code is lost, washed away by white noise, The global village is the less, as well as if a webpage were, As well as any of thine facebook friends or thine own were, Because I am involved in humanity And therefore never send to know For whom twitter trends It trends for thee.
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 Take my hand, sweet friend,
And come with me To search for Prince’s music On YouTube; We won’t find any, I know, He was very strict About copyright Restrictions But I feel he would’ve been Happy For us to try. Come with me, my child, Let us run now, Let us run through The long grass Of Summer: There are Pokemons To collect Even though I have read That Sex Offenders Are using the game To entrap children. Don’t run away, my love, The song that I sing Will soon be a ringtone As famed as That one from Nokia; All our dreams Are doomed To become Sean Bean themed memes: Mostly variations on “One does not simply Walk into Mordor!” The garden looks at me with ill disguised contempt The grass grows long with disapproval A broken wheelbarrow rusts under the tree Impatient for its own (never-going-to-happen) removal. The flowerbeds look sick with hate The daffodils nod in mute condemnation The potted plants and vegetable patch Are demanding an immediate explanation. The cat quietly tells me I’m a twat. A tiny ocean crashes
Beneath the short sky On a minuscule island, a flake, Battered by fiddly weather, Close to the compact continent, All spread over The crumb of the world, a mote, Caught in the stifling closeness Of a tight solar system, Twisting in a narrow galaxy, A low ceiling-ed infinity: A tiny universe A tiny tiny universe A speck. This is only my 2nd day
And I’m already stuck I’m tempted to break some prose And try my luck The fact of the matter is No one likes poetry Perhaps I ought to admit That also includes me Look at the insistence on rhyme Look at the self-regard Look for a point if you like But don’t look too hard.  The idiots are winning
The stupid fucking bastards They talk about progress Then head off full speed backwards Facts are anathema Nuance is ignored They explode with murder Are too easily bored The idiots are winning I’m not being facetious Welcome to the voluntary extinction Of the specious |
AuthorJohn Bleasdale is a writer. His work has appeared in The Guardian, The Independent, Il Manifesto, as well as CineVue.Com and theStudioExec.com. He has also written a number of plays, screenplays and novels. Archives
March 2019
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