Political Gaming Show

Those bandy back shows of squatters studied picking in junk piles

And the big bird overlord absurd presides inspects their finds

As the dust flies upwards like the sparks of global trouble

Coating all things with fine films, where else could these thrive?

 

Bluff watchers semiotics masters gauging word for word

Evaluative, as well at once directional

Stroke on their beards and fervent epilated torsos

On what to be sold at auction what domestic use

 

To be fed to oven fires and so to make their daily bread

Or like good Holy Mary, to be pondered, treasured up

Announcements of spot gospel gnomons on forbidden truths

Wrapped in the thorny rings of unforgiving lies

 

Blessed formative informations of the virtual kind

Are Baedekers of the tourist haunts amongst enquiring minds

Pokes pointing to burning Reichstags, salt in cold Siberian mine,

The percolators, purpose-makers, make use and borrow time

 

On a dungheap in Johannesburg sit brawny brown-skinned blacks

Picking the bones as titbits left from others’ niggard snacks

Eking a living, by love forgiving, the family of man

Making of music mislocates their homes to Disneyland

 

In the indolent mind’s eye quavering on their vibrant scores

Dredged of the soils of shanty towns and of root defiance

Coiled against serpent circumstance; its astute and moot alliance

With the bandy back show squatters picking trophies from their hands

 

Glad to post them, inland service, crossrail, packet second class

Parcelled in gaudy gift wrap, branded, pure perfect under glass

The true definitive birthday present sorted to the door;

So many answers romance on the questions

 

And yes, there are questions only; to be finely framed,

By occupation thoughtfully, and then not lightly aimed,

As though an arrowed battle blade of casual human war

Or plied in thin defence, defiance hurtles to the floor

 

The week’s refractories; club phylacteries aides memoire:

Do keep one’s shoulders back, arms levelled up, attend the score

Those virulent violent pony rides our prattle preens and dreams

On Self-importance Beach; but so; low lonely question streams

 

In the stony deserts two a cent, of public washroom swathes

Made marketable product in marginal and castoff trades,

Here winter keeps dead Homer, next to him, in prayers parade,

Sweet Julian and strong Andrewes, precious tested in their graves

 

Sooth souls recruit with questions answering needfulmost enquiry

A Cup-a-Soup, a jerk, might careless spill and slop their covers

The hunter gatherer pickers of the midden heaps for pottage

Untraveled in their minds, stare necks resolved, unmoved; not got it

 

Bandy back show piece pickers skim again their killing fields

They monetise ersatz ammunitions from their shrapnel finds

Dispatch by batch to rat-catchers, armfuls at clubbing stations

Self-poisoned by their field-remains from former fights

 

Great gracious High Lord of Heaven send us a feater light!

Great gracious Lord of Heaven with us through the thickest night!

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