and tosses the half-dead baby out of the window of her Range Rover,
as she might a sandwich box on the hard shoulder.
Government helps. It has contracted the motorway to more manageable proportions.
The hard shoulder is merely the slow lane.
Along the right side of the fast lane runs a fissure the size of the Aconcagua.
Then, out of steam, the metaphor halts in its tracks.
From the sierra, Peru not Ford, and from the jungle, the rainforest
Not drum and bass, the ancestors of the Incas emerge.
Hard core, no longer ravaged by measles, diphtheria and smallpox,
Breaking the beat of expropriation, their reciprocity,
As quaint as a finely-woven textile in Primark.
Thousands of miles from trend-setting fashion-consciousness,
But not that far from fiscal paradise where taxes, like governments, lie
- The market situates everything at the margins.
She remembers being concussed twice before,
but on both occasions the narrative fell flat.
What constitutes happiness is multi-factorial,
says the plastic surgeon, using a straight face
From a jarful that he keeps by the door.
He knows exactly what’s going on in her head;
The equation that is not a matter of mathematics, but physics.
Bigger boobs = richer boyfriend.
Gold-digging is economically transformative; yet Britannia's breast augmentation
Is a great burden to bear - not too the mention the Kent booty job, at whose mention
The straight-talking plastic doctor has taken the cue to melt away
Into the obscure bijou drains of electronica. Thrombotic beats, an Amen break or three,
Beta-blockers and aspirins have spilt over the pockets of his white coat.
This has nothing at all to do with the fat man from east Leicester
Who thinks Big Pharma is a WWF wrestler.
The plastic doctor's virtual fanny pack stuffed full of gilt-edged, guilt-free bonds
And bit coins. Profits kill, serially and massively.
She has a simple strategy. Compare across, compare down, but never compare up.
Seek out the pained. Listen to their woes and wallow in the relief
That it’s not your narrative.
Ask any unpaid psychologist, commercialization is as predictable as the news,
And only skews the outcome.
Gunshot is an everyday event in London, Washington and Babylon, near Hillah, Iraq.
The world isn’t a holiday brochure, it’s real.
The gold mine in County Tyrone waits for a minister to sign it off.
Progress is an illusion we feed to the algorithms of control.
Near-term gratification, temporary elevation, the sugar of retail, addicted to the thrill
Of conspicuous and compulsive consumption, you will eat yourself one day and not notice
- Even after you see it on You Tube.
Widow, Mavis, 70, hallucinates from loneliness.
She mostly misses her husband for the sex.
She finds respite in the bright lights of Soho. She wanders up and down Compton Street,
In tow her unstable but racially pure, invisible boyfriend.
She is a lonely fascist, only three meals away from anarchy.
There are food banks and soup kitchens in Munich again: all those sexy uniforms.
Three times a day, as regular as the trains,
All that she wants is a diet of frequent and intense orgasms
Delivered on time by a handsome shock trooper with a long, moist dorsum muscle.
Mavis is no more real than your Facebook page.
You are products: one of invention, the other of notional content.
Monetizing the imagination is a messy business.
The satisfying linear narrative of success that you crave and demand
Cannot be guaranteed.
You share a plot line with psychopaths.
Kleptocrats, crooks and criminals from the Kremlin watch on,
As the washed-up lie wacked out along the West Wing.
The end is high. It stinks to Nye Bevan.
The Right Hon. member for Ebbw Vale lifts the leg of his trousers
To give us a tantalising glimpse of social justice.
Mavis fails to climax.
The Chief Finance Officer drafts the mass email
That dismisses the bottom 10% of humanity with immediate effect.
She cannot be sure. But she thinks she feels a tingle already.
When it goes out for real, she is bound to come.
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| CHORIZA MAY |
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