What They Bleep Out on Ice Road Truckers
Loneliness. The thickness of ice.
The core of despair
slammed like an eight ball
around the pool table of macho talk.
The freezing point of diesel.
The twenty-two words for snow,
the two hundred for cold,
the two thousand for fucking cold.
The Energizer Bunny as Addict: A Diptych
Cymbals dust-furred, batteries
corroding. His incessant march
slowed with each toke, stopped
when the couch beckoned
and welcomed him and whispered
the ancient secrets of apathy.
It’s the elephant in the boardroom
of advertising: he’s wasted,
de-energised. He’d deny it, insist
he has enough juice to dial
the pizza parlour, place the order,
psych himself up to answer the door.
Cymbals. Cymbals! Motherfucking
CYMBALS!!! Bang clash, bang clash,
BangClash BangCLASH, BANG-CLASH!!!
Buy this, buy it, buy, buy whatever
I’m selling. Here’s a product, here’s
a flag, here’s god and country and
a million guns locked and loaded.
Johnny Rotten as a pork sausage,
Sid Vicious as a dozen rashers
of back bacon. The Queen
with a safety pin through her nose
doesn’t bleed out enough
for a black pudding – and besides,
it’s blue blood. What’s it good
for, blue blood? It adds nothing
to the cheap paper sleeve
of a 45rpm single. Adds nothing
to an album cover. Blue blood?
It adds nothing to society
or the breakfast table. What good
is a fried slice slathered in HP
when tiara’d toffs eat swan?
I’ll tell you what good – fire
in the blood. Food for the soul.
A breakfast that sets you up
for the day, gives you the guts
for revolution. Anarchy