.
who’s on first, this bandit
with one arm stuck deep
in the thresher, thank god
in this year of our Lord two
thousand and twenty three
we blotted out the antagonist
moon, we fluked snow, flunked
once and for all, who’s on first,
husky rasp, gripping handfuls,
the curvature of a walrus, uncut
reality, bloody coppers, hands
degloved, fart arsing about,
a roundabout way of saying
nothing much at all really, all
this traipsing and stench, nothing
but much less, chk chk, hohoho,
self and hasty, self and hasty,
who’s on first, furtive glancer,
hush up now, give over, way,
wait, weigh up the ups against
the downers, what’s the real
syndrome and who makes
the glue and who’s thirsty for
it and who on earth do you
think you’re talking to, really,
basing important personality
defining opinions on furtive
eye contact, clipped, a broad
tent outside Parliament, tracing
blood back a bit, fingers crossed
for a guy fawkes relation, this
collar dogs us both, snap shut
the cuffs, link me later, holy
wooden alternation, lazy lazy
streaming consciousness from
the knackered modem, it goes
brrrrneenawneenawbrrrrrrr
and we go throwing the remote
at a towering babble of unread
paperbacks stacked, squeezing
off a round, do it for them,
the kids, goat eye, I said lazy,
racy little number, strum hum,
the drip drip of plaguedoctor’s
pinnochio, you go out for dinner
with your partner and sit on
your phone and scroll and
scroll and scroll and scroll
and scroll and scroll and scroll
and scroll and scroll and scroll
and scroll and scroll and scroll
and scroll and scroll and scroll
and scroll and scroll and scroll
and scroll and scroll and scroll
and scroll and scroll and scroll
and scroll and scroll and scroll
and scroll and scroll and scroll
and scroll and scroll and scroll
and scroll and scroll and scroll
and wonder why your life’s going
all to rot, why your belt is starting
to talk behind your back, your
cheeks are rosy, you’re porcelain,
you’re porky pig, you’re David
Cameron forgetting his toddler
in a country pub, you’re one of
these ones who thinks piss weak
middle ground murmuring liberalism
is a good thing rather than the
very obstacle we should all be trying
to overcome, like: blessed Europe
is a rat’s nest, and yes, I’m sick of
little Britain too but I’m sicker of
big capital, sick like a dogsbody,
middle England took a deadly piss
on my kitchen carpet, and we’re
basically dead, frozen in a fish eye,
devoted to what little nothing
symmetry litter picking gets you,
black coffee at eleven pm, the
cliff face like a smacked arse, and
radical hostility demands radical
opposition, glue yourself to
a front bench minister, let them
drag you through to Chequers,
whisper sweet nothingness in
that elongated ear, yuurk them,
thatch their roofs, tongue them,
crown and anchor the grammarian,
acolyte, mendicant, carve a tonsure,
independent businesses, a put
on, words are worth nothing now,
whines unrelenting, unwilling to
read a real book, put up a fight,
tell a story, tell a tale, teletext,
and dregs and rocks and scrolls,
the barrel has been scraped
the barrel has been scraped
the barrel has been scraped
the hasbeen scrapes the barrel,
comes up empty, thumb suckered,
bed wetter, huddy leadbetter better
hurry, you’re a long ways from home,
and who’s on first, who’s on next,
cusp sitter, it’s bolted on, we’re abutted
by dark serpentines, we’re skimming
the cream, we’re squealer and
napoleon sucking from the teat,
we’re spent, we’re cold, we’re nesting,
we’re glazed over, we’re hunkered down,
we’re bunking, fucked in the bunker,
crying leopards ate my face, not
enduring but enjoying, white knuckle
suspect, throwing voices, vice gripper,
deputy to the vice, grim jawed, slack
eyes, pretending at, running from,
mouthing doubt unsaying unsaying
this is quality control, this is
memorial device, this is spectacular,
this is a twenty minute toilet break,
this is a cavity search, this is demeaning,
this is dumb this is dumb this is dumb
Matt Carbery
Picture Rupert Loydell
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