This is a raw piece of writing. Just practice really, but I liked it so I hope you like it too. It doesn’t make much sense. But does it have to?
I don't understand why people, especially poets1, are surprised that Boris partied whilst people's grandparents died on zoom calls. You all can't be this helplessly naive, can you?2
How can anyone be surprised that a sentient clump of pissy drain hair doesn't adhere to its own rules? He can barely remember the names of his own children, never mind which interns he's not supposed to finger whilst the public waves a tearful, glitchy goodbye to their elders over wifi connections already strained by the immensity of [REDACTED] Prince Andrew regularly pumps through the internet like cream cheese through a curly straw.
How naive can the public be? Boris, a man who probably shouldn't be described as such, whose hair is only being grown so that Trump can harvest it should his get lopped off by military helicopters whilst he's f**king them, can't be reasonably expected to make a good decision. For starters, gorillas in the African forests insult their political enemies by likening them to "Rampant Boris Johnson's" as they wage tribal warfare much more sophisticated than anything Boris has ejaculated (and I mean that in the Victorian3 sense) upon our televisions and newspapers.
Can we truly blame a man who probably hears the words “Tory Party” and immediately orders pre-drinks? Perhaps we need to rethink the language we use around Boris, in the same way you might add bits of foam to the corners of tables if your toddler keeps running full-speed into them4.
But that’s not all. I have a theory he hosted the parties just to make you all forget about the racism. Because that was a thing, something dimly remembered under all the other stuff. Do you remember? It feels like a lifetime ago now doesn’t it?
And now, Boris is set to introduce “Plan B” to distract us from his partying. The conspiracy theorist inside me is screaming “THAT’S THE NAME OF THE MORNING AFTER PILL” and it is all coming together. It’s not an accident, none of this was. It was all purposeful, guided, and planned.
In fact maybe the whole thing was planned. They heard about the virus earlier than we think, and let it run rampant because it kept us distracted as they prepared to burrow back into their nests. Just as Zuckerberg is perfecting the art of torturing digital human souls inside the Metaverse, the government is urging us to stay inside and weld ourselves to our office chairs with chip grease and bodily fluids. Just as Matt Hancock was living up to his comic-book name and fondling his way out of his marriage and job, people who bonked once or twice after a night on the town were forced to isolate… together… for months at a time. The vast chasm between ‘us’ and ‘them’ became vaster, and probably some art or social studies student wrote an erotic play about the whole thing, but we didn’t find out because we were all too busy making similar puns about that cargo ship that got stuck during foreplay with the Suez [c]anal.
Maybe the Metaverse is working with the government to usher in a world where we all stay inside, where we venture even further inside simulations, where we are unaware of the dying planet outside because the one on the inside looks much nicer and has floating islands we can pretend to live on. Maybe Epstein’s ghost persists inside the Metaverse, maybe he’s the final boss of level 7, maybe you can’t kill him, but have to trap him Home Alone style inside an infinitely large suburban house. I have no idea. All I know is that this blog is already dead by the time I post it, because it’s about events that none of you will remember next week, and some of you don’t even remember now. Only those with a career in the outrage machine bother to remember things now. I can turn the TV on and the nice man inside it can remember things for me.
Remember to buy.
Remember to stay inside.
Remember to buy.
Remember to stay inside.
Remember to buy.
Remember to buy.
Remember to buy.
I know a lot of poets and it seems that poets, now mainly online, have decided they are political speakers rather than poets. There’s only so much you can rhyme with covid though, so hopefully they all grow out of it soon and we can get back to writing fun stuff.
(Actually I’ve seen your poem about tulips. Maybe you can)
And also in the other sense.
Would probably be wise to make the safety foam non-toxic, as he is partial to a nibble.