On the Far Side of The World

Boy-biker joy raises terrible noise on the block

And reminds me of a man I knew once, Geoff;

Dead now of motor neurone; he was pretty gauche;

Performed a business operation for his late employ

In North America.

 

Went up by air balloon; the Arizona desert strewn below;

For why?

There is that tiny niggle word; it claws, anticipates;

Experience

 

Ah, come, and taste and see, become a way of life,

The global junkie’s modus operandi packaged, sanctified

Replete in all effects to blank out being alive

 

Chasers of storms, and media foreign correspondents,

Boy-bikers hooked on warfare, on being in the eye

Of some imagined imaginary centrefold

Played out inside one’s head. The world’s undead

 

Near-shades, half-formed, half-formulated, siphoning off

The foments of this whirl of haste that leave us gagging

Merely to know such pandemoniums shrill exist:

Happy the man untroubled, unmolested by them

 

Boy-biker joy is pleasant, some super-Sunday fix

Feeding The Man, the biker boy he thinks he wants to be

Because that Man is super-Sunday Mister Somebody.

Nobody me

 

Sailing in air balloon Geoff conquered Anapurnas

Of cool and kudos in himself; his satisfactions,

Rode for a while on cloud nine high-spec adulation

Due someone else – his anchormen of smooth

 

Choice dudes who joyride his thought trails; action-men flunkies

Extollers of this look, of wearing clothes like that

Workers of signal paths rerouting synapse freightcars’

Of contraband regalia, burnished branded bullshit

 

The kit to baffle brains with copious intimations

Setting that ragged nerve on edge at work within

Under the glitz of competition’s simulated stimulations

From marketing’s Mr Jones

 

Similarly being action-figures costs a lot

A shedload of over-envious consternation

And haversacksful of beggar my neighbour bullion

Be burdened with

 

And toss mad money at expecting resolution

By upping the dealer’s ante, ratcheting the screw

In forcing forced to enter on self same mill

Unloading pain uploading pains on you.

 

Played by glove puppet escalators, croupes on strings,

Bound up bound over in service to lucre-lustre Men

Dupers who sheen and shine, promote the queues for bitter prizes

Cracked in your hands

 

Come find in loss your compass, seek among rejection

Candour as solace sings a consonance as deemed,

Carry beyond delusion fastening onto consolation

Get with The Lord; deny the lily lies of Masquerade

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