When the payday dracula comes disguised as your son
The natural corporate offspring is a robot
Operated by a teenager, avoiding detention
With morons cheating quatrains by Captcha, bombing mosques by Kinect.
It is not no oddity could predict we would not fly cars
By September Eleven Oh-one, who knew we’d hold it against
That past’s Future, our own no space mercantiles, ours no bug fights,
We laugh, power pointing there, Love and Reason always elsewhere.
Their stooge is not the future’s enemy. The Boxer is just
Distraction, strategic delay for cost effective sponsor change.
Far from dim-witted, choosing not to make the decision with his head
But by the faith beaten into him by other clever believers:
The head they hold has its limits yet we suspect we do not
So wisdom must lie elsewhere, we reason. We dream of waking
So we can sleep, of grief so we can weep: noxious passion
For the pimply mind of The Market, our belief.
Don’t mix your doom echo with The Shape of Things.
It isn’t even your shape, come to that, just noise:
See the Boxer relish your panic, easy fixed by his poll
And nothing else. “What’s the good of it?” Indeed.
Good is decent people extrapolating.
If Death directed a Major Motion Picture we’d get a musical:
Sound of Music, Carousel, and Rocky Horror, shot 4D,
Celestial, karmic, infernal, choreography and and all that jazz by Fosse;
Or just director’s comments on the DVD and deleted scenes, alternate endings –
Links to extinct contests or sites we can blog to oblivion.
If Death directed a Major Motion Picture we’d get no sequels:
The same thing but different is not Hell but reassurance,
Remakes, fanfic, tactfully nipped by franchisor –
Or each iteration as fresh as the first time you ducked the huge rolling ball,
Gagged at shot vomit, only handsomer, more dimensional leads each time, Clooney for Grant.
If Death directed a Major Motion Picture we’d get more than bargained for:
Hamlet’s quivering obsession our heart’s, Kent’s illness at the green stuff our gut’s,
The Stooge’s hammer blow to the brain our own hollow tone –
Or a cynical knowledge of all endings, all cheap short cuts, all bastardised Odysseys,
Sad gap after original novel, stolen MacGuffin, better Danish original.
But Death does not direct, lucky, gets Associate Producer credit:
As we recline in the dark, hoping nobody sees our tears, we let go
For better or worse, richer or poorer, in the Auteur’s sleight of hands –
And whether we pray for Goddard but get Stone or for Jackson but get Bakshi,
Smuggle your own sweet snacks for the popcorn is too dear.
Counting pickets, count the beat
Wear wrong footwear, use wrong feet
Folding answers till they’re neat
Keep Poseidon sweet.
Click the heel, no answer rush
Slow to anger, quick to blush
Smile to fill the question hush
Pattern turns to mush.
Cross aorta, spit and miss
Tidy breathing, tidy bliss
Meditate, and cross goes criss
Must be more to this.
Edge of truth, buttery boon
Out of reach, live cartoon
Mumble something out of tune
And go home way too soon.
Irritation, puff the flame
Seriousness, just the same
A god and everything a game
Or totally lame.
Put a stone down, put a stone
Doan down darn down down down
One foot after another
Only one, only one,
A wave sweeps in and laves all our little wrinkles away.
Hush, hush, there is nothing outside this.