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the colosseum.

It’s Sunday morning, 10 am,

and I am only vaguely interested in reading the papers

and yet, I read them still,

ever hopeful of something more than the dross & drivel &

TV guide within.

This instant kwik-fix world of ours is media-filtered through a

thin dusty veil of mediocrity, sound bytes & news, news, news.

It’s all tits & tattoos, TV ratings & the Time Team Dig.

Christ, I wish they would dig up something interesting,

when all they do is dig the dirt – and, yes, it is infectious!

And Africa !  - who gives a fuck about Africa when they don’t

give an HIV – infected fuck about themselves ?  I don’t.

I’d rather give a tenner to that wino on the street

and have him piss his day away contented.

Yep, it’s all shite, I mumble.

But you know what ? it’s really not.

It’s just that the spin gets in the way, the 9 to 5 mentality, 

the hype, the ad men, the concessions, the suits, the money.

And the honest folk, the decent folk,

the everyday acts of kindness, the good news, well,

they just don’t register, just don’t sell –

they just get swallowed up in a sea of tittle tattle,

football & horoscopes, nip & tuck, silicone & botox.

Flat-line fodder.

 

The sentiments aren’t real,

Reality TV isn’t real,

even the tits aren’t real !

One day, I reckon, they will bring back hanging,

not as punishment, mind, but as entertainment.

And they will put it on TV and call it something catchy like

Stretch Your Neck, and you will vote off the missing link.

 

It’s Sunday morning, 10 am,

and I long for something pure & clean & good,

but I turn the page anyway.