Category Archives: terrible poetry

Another terrible poem: The simplicity of our complicity

The context of is this. I recently met someone who writes good poems (unlike me). And gets paid for doing so (ditto). And this person (age, gender etc will not be mentioned) swerved the suggestion to write on what is already the central issue, and will soon become the overwhelming issue, for our species (and indeed all the other species we “share” this planet with), because they aren’t a saint.  We set the zealot-hypocrite trap for ourselves, and waltz into it willingly. And it’s not fucking good enough.

The simplicity of our complicity
Explicitly de-hooks us
The poet knows things are going from bad to verse
But stays averse to naming our curse
Asks us to swallow his wallow in the shallow end
(Of our bitter end)
Of our collective hypocrisy

The luxury of silence as the silence of extinction
Descends upon us
Some rebel yell
Some rebel squeak
Some go meek

Some go meek
We all go, of course, head first but eyes clamped shut
Our mouths self-sewn
Because we all have shown  what we are capable of.

The simplicity of this complicity
“I’m guilty as sin”
As if we didn’t know, as if we cared
The cloak of shame we hide in front of
Will not unhook us
We cannot unlook us.

We are worms on that hook
And if we live by our books
If our words give us our daily bread
If we are unacknowledged legislators
Refusing to call out the legislators
Refusing to call those who stuff the ballot boxes

Refusing to call on those with eyes and ears and hands to hear and see and do this  work
If we shirk
If we allow our complicity to be the simplicity of our

Then are we poets, or are we lion in slumber?

Are we human?

Karoshing defeat

Faster faster

Faster is the master

Break faster

Eat eat eat

The speed, the speed is all you’ll ever need to…




Slow as you go. Slow food, slow violence. Slow down down

Escape velocity.


We cannot escape velocity, you , you yokel.  You too vocal local yokel, lacking in veracity.

True dat.

Lacking in Virilian voracity for speed,  break faster and faster.

Kill, kill pussycat

and the growing need for speed and novocaine

but slow down, you move too fast, you’ve got to make the moment….


Last time I listen to two radio stations at once. Simon and Cold Chisel gar

Funkel with my brain.

So much for multi-track multi-tasking in a multiverse

My fit bit ate my  playlist. I,my,…

Faster faster, it’s got a back beat you can lose it…


Losing it, losing bearings

Lost in the woods where the bearings shit.

Lost in the woods ain’t such a problem if you are an orang umaniac

You let the lobbyist change the rules and you

You cut down the fucking forest. It’s gonna be yuge.  We are going to make so

Much money.
You’ll love the smell of palm oil in the mourning

Cut down the fucking palm trees, as the raffish Raffles riffed,

A colonial irrigation of the shit of power;

Provide them with No Alternative

Quickly. Cut them to the quick

Quick silver and quicker gold

Their demise supplies no surprise, but you don’t have to surmise that your prize is bounteous

If you only look quickly.

If you look only quickly, you will not see the mutiny,

bounding skywards. Boundless piles of wreckage we call



Oh the dark satanic mills

The cotton picking mills

The treadmills

The anhedonic treadmills for the lucky few.

The prisoners on the wooden mill, walking walking but the e – energy

Deliberately wasted, to show that the masters could,

a conspicuous non-consumption of the under-serving.

to show that the Prisoners

were in fact just numbers, not men, did not m – matter.


The energy that made the turbines spin free, speeding us to heat death,

independent of a grid, as

Rocket Scientist Charlie Sheen discovered in 1996’s  ‘The Arrrival’.

And confronted the alien sent to terraform us.  “How is it immoral”,

he (played by the late Ron… Silver)  asked our Charlie, “to merely

Accelerate” (that word again!)

To throw accelerant on “a fire that humans had started,

Were fully aware of,

And were unwilling to stop?”  Well?  Well?  No, we’re not.


And in Japan, those firefly men with their dead social democratic karoshi bargain.

With robots coming to wipe their eyes and dry their arses

Or did I get that bit wrong?  That’s what

happens when you write lines of code too quick

A bugger in the system

It’s not a bug, it’s a design creature.
You need swift features in this game.

Which is still the game.  But not still, very very far from still.
See, the light at the end of the tunnel is travelling

At c.

Or the train is.

Blink and you’ll miss it, but it won’t miss you.

Neither will anything else.

Does your device suffice?

And do your devices cause crisis?

Not for the gorillas or the coltan miners. I mean, screw them, right? They should get with the (shareware) programme.

I don’t care about that crime screen- sorry, scene.  Neither do you.

We can screen it out, rope it off, easy as we like. With a vintage audio cassette – cracked like a human skull by a terminator’s curved steel foot- that  tape spooling out spooling out.

Grab some of that metallic brown shiny stuff that nobody under, what, 40, knows what I am talking about, how you’d stick a pencil into the spool and twist your wrist, twist one off your wrist.
There’s no analog to that, in a digital age, is there?

Maybe refreshing the refreshing the refreshing. Ping ping ping?  I don’t know, I’m too old for this shit.

You’re never too old to be an addict?  Where was I?  Am I? Was I?  Diverted, distracted

It’s happening a lot, of late.
Audio tape! Crime screnes in the Congo!  I lose my metaphors in my metadata, mater.

Like entrails, like small intestine from some idiot who didn’t know they were going to bomb the fucking market today.  I mean, don’t you follow ISIS on twitter? Hello?

We tape off the scene from our Is.  To keep us out or the bodies in, who knows.

Or cares.

Move on, nothing to see here, nothing to be seen screen scream here.

We please ourselves, we police ourselves, we police each other.  Foucault

Bentham, Georgie

They’d be laughing like drains, but the panoptic is the

Wrong optic.
We’ve come to the other end of the spectrum.

The plectrum – the plastic on the string – is the

Music of total situational awareness,

Our tabs are keeping tabs on us. The browser browses both ways.

The spectrum is the plectrum is

the tool is the

panspectron that gives us

Permanent global summer time, permanent global

Simmer time. Permanent global

Burning time.

Bruler n’est pas repondre.
We eat, it, we breathe it. We can’t smell it.  We were not born free, and everyone where we are in chains

Value chains

Production chains

Chains of chains.

How else do you run a global society?  Damn it man.  Would you have us live in caves? There are seven plus billion of us. Are you some sort of luddite?

Fuck the planet. I mean, seriously, like, what has it done for me lately? But

what about you?

Do you splinter in the reflections, the injections of digital botox of factoids and memes – mememememe.

Do you deafen yourself with the Instagram-a-phone? Do you throw your balls on the snapchatroulette?

All technologies will be the end of us, it has been ever thus.  The phone was going to kill off visiting your neighbours, true fact.  The radio, the television.  Fear of the new, it’s how we’re…

Dare I say wired?

And but this time – like and unlike all the other times – is different.  No, really, there’s an

MRI , I, I, to prove it…

The cynics can sigh

The users can sign in

There’s apps for that, and it’s all bad for our synapses, if you believe what you read on the…

Um… Internet.

Meanwhile, those gorillas aren’t getting any less dead, and polar bears aren’t getting any

Fatter.  And the fear in the atmosphere

Is curving upwards, like a … thing that is

Keeling. Over.

And when the anthropologists arrive from Mars – either because they were there all along,

Or they come back in a thousand years, to find their cryogenic master Elon Musk, and pop him in the microwave for more words of wisdom.
They will look through the record – the fossil record.

And will they have been able to have said anything other than– ‘who the hell did these people think they WERE?’

The longest time

You gotta go along to get along

You gotta get along to go along

You gotta

You gotta

You gotta get


‘Git, boy’.

Get more

You gotta go along

You gotta ride along

You gotta ride and ride

You gotta never be wry, right?

You gotta you got

You better you bet

You gotta ride the wave

You gotta wave, ride, right?

You gotta ride along

You gotta long long ride

Longing for belonging

Longing- of  course, you know the next

puritan, obvious statement of overpowering

didactic ‘fact’ – 

Longing for belongings.
We go along, to get along.

It won’t be long now, will it?