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7 poems by Chris Byrne Branded Lacoste tattooed on my chest Catchy jingle on my mind When I blink I see negatives Of cola logos and golden arches Conspicuous consumption has diffused Through my pores into me Choonz Cars go by Hissing with the sound of amplified hi-hats Some slide by like rattle snakes Others sound like dodgy kettles Clubbing in Aldershot. Shite As the deejay piles pure piano tuna On hard cheesebag endlessly Anybody who is nobody Will soon walk through that door Life is not hard in here Just a lot of it is para trained Major structural damage is being inflicted upon the premises By the mattress backs ( Not mutton dressed as lamb But offal packaged as mutton ) Waddling in time to the big numbas It feels like the roof is about to cave in My dandruff is glowin' under the UV light Oh the glamour The Closed Circuit Teardops In this takeaway town No one gives a fuck Everything has a short shelf-life Jobs, marriages and friendships Modern life seems to be made of many Velcro relationships Pushed together Torn apart Please don't crush my Styrofoam heart It will not decompose It can not be recycled You smoulder like a cigarette Not extinguished by this ashtray town It is not the cigarette that counts It is the packet that matters The electric light in this room is so strong It feels like it is bleaching my head and hands In this town there is no scenic route Nothing is in black and white Just grey Retrograde I am the spirit of retro youth culture A costumed crisis living in a costume drama I am the process of what was cool Reaching room temperature I live in inverted commas In a self-imposed cartoon I am excitement for those who like routine Smiling knowingly Sarcastically Cynically Satirically Ironically Today is of little value I prefer the good old days before I was born I deny the creative possibility of young blood Or am I just fancy dress for a far too serious world? Rowhill I like to play on words Like they are blades of grass In a field On a sunny day I do not use artificial fertiliser on my words Just pure bull shit Provisional Poetic Licence I have passed the theory But not the practical I tend to look in the rear view mirror too much I am not good at reading the signs and signals The fast lane is sometimes too fast for me I have blindspots in my windscreen as well I am not good at indicating Giving way Or racing Music distracts my concentration I wear a seatbelt I seem to drive better on my own © Chris Byrne 1998 |
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