Cyclopicam

My webcam's watching me. Cyclopsian.
This is why I call it cyclopicam.
& "all the people" behind its screenglass
Are watching me. It is like 'Gogglebox'.
We are wired up, downloaded, if we are
Too ... interesting, for our own good, for our
Year of Our Lord Two Thousand & Thirteen
Is Nineteen Eighty Four plus Twenty Nine
& we've fallen into a paradigm
In which we are shrinkwrapped, zipfiled, if we
Cannot be headshrunk like our severed heads
Were taken in war, vetted, vatted, jars,
An underground like in The Time Machine
Harvested for The (God Save The Queen) Pound,
& ground into it, & for the pollen
That has & does & will clung cling & cling
To our inner legs. & Cyclopicam
(& the powers that be behind it's eye)
Stare out & stare me out & reel me in,
A gape with agape, disseminate-
-ing myself, my seed, my harvest, my wheat
Until I am a revenant made of chaff.
The Hills Have Eyes. My MacBook has an eye.
Beyond Good & Evil. (It's Nietzschean.)
(The people behind it aren't Nietzschean.
They're Oxymandias. They're kings of kings.
& what if they don't approve of the things
I say or do or think or dream or feel...)
My webcam's watching me. It's watching me
Like you watch football, a pot, or TV.
One day, when there's something interesting on,
Then Cyclopicam's eye will come to rest
On me. Be judge. Be jury. Execute.
I shall - we shall, be plucked out by the roots.

Common

The common land was cut up into squares.
Gridpapered in exchange for them. Enclosed.
Divided. Conquered. By the conquerers.
With pens, ink, tar & feathers, and the world
as maths-excercise-cake, & as consumed
by Marie Antoinettes in property.

Cut up, like relics, into property,
Into triangles, rectangles & squares,
for to be culled & for to be consumed,
wheels within wheels & hells in hells enclosed,
a lock-in long enough to lay the world
low as mills, as Satanic conquerors.

Will-o-the-wipsps, in crept the conquerors,
discovered, & turned into property.
Electric spread her net over the world,
which peered, gasping, out from between its squares,
&, wreathed in lightning, synapses enclosed
in plague, in cataracts, in scums, consumed

by teeth of flame - consumed, consumed, consumed.
Gran: prefab electrician. Conquerors
building their trenches in the sand. Enclosed
like borders. Herbaceous or property.
Claimed. People packed in flatpacked boxes. Squares.
How many of her wires in the world?

Wired. Local news & world news & ... the world.
Today & tomorrow. Cooked up. Consumed.
Under grills & in grids. The lines & squares.
The bears. Politicians & conquerors.
Beastbirds guarding their nest eggs. Property.
Banked & buried. & distilled. & enclosed.

Electric jungle. Unconcrete. Enclosed.
A world within a world within a world.
At war for pride. At war for property.
Consumed with jealousy while its consumed.
Downloads. Uploads. History. Conquerors.
The hearts & the minds ticking all the squares. 

Murder(ous/ing) Modernity

Draw a polyester veil
O'er tattered bodies, tattered souls,
Paint our faces, take our places, take our times, our lives & works too...
& "what do you do?" "what do you do?"
Spotlight, operating light - who
Do you think you are, shitshoed
Walker all overer of due
Respected tax-paying hardworking 2 up 2 down 4 point 2 childrened families,
Breeders,
Squeezers of the silver teats, & silver spoons, not bottem-feeders,
Shoppers in the afternoons,
& postmodern, pseudo-modern drop-outs -
"Play the game!"
Well what's your game?
I didn't play & I'm not playing, speak up & speak up again.
I'm (la la la la la) not listening,
But you have ways of making me listen.
The finaincal lynchmob & the Beta version debter's prison.
You owe me, O! you owe me, yes! what a deadly debt to pay
When you are muted from the mind's eye,
You're shut up & gone away.

The Streets

The concrete has been poured like a gray page,
Like a gray day turned on its head, sky ground.
The day is maximal, wage minimal,
Seconds tick tock by pound by pound by pound.

The tick tock is the meter keeping time,
The fucked clock stopped and there are no batteries.
”There are no”, translation, ”can’t afford”. Mime
Second hand tick tocks mind-forged eyes can’t see

With twitches like the tramp at Bretonside,
A human clock beneath mock-digital
Replacings of lined numbers side by side.
There was no turn, nothing so animal.

There was no turn, but listen to the growl
That whispers itself, a teeth-shut-tight howl.

The arrows point, open umbrella terms,
Curve round like heat-seeking-missiles, seek heat
Beaten out of broken hearts, broken herms,
Broken homes (if that term had meaning). Beat

Verse, beat up, down out, up in, Paris and
Londinium, proscenium, Shakespeare,
Ian an Iago smoking fags and
Blowing up his belly-balloon with beer.

He’s put stones in his shoes, but he can’t sink,
The lavic world has turned its heart to stone,
He waves and drowns and drowns himself in drink,
He waves and drowns and drinks, and drinks alone.

Enough. He’s a loser. He’s had enough.
Passes the buck. Gets his bird up the duff.

Mass-produced, there are toys to use as shrouds,
Shroud-collages to cover girls and boys,
(Hermaphrodites), nip buds and make them crowds.
Plastic pollen, playfully packaged ploys.

They move along from square to square to square.
The squares ”crack the whip(s) and” they ”step in time”.
They move along, there’s nothing to see there.
”Whipcrackaway.” Ridiculous. Sublime.

Mass-production produces machine-men.
Each morning they cage themselves. And they tweet.
Repeat. Repeat. Again. Again. Again.
Again. Again. Again. Repeat. Repeat.

These are the worker bees, and Ians spawn.
These are the Iagos. Hear lions yawn.

Drawing a condom-veil over the birth
Of hordes and hordes and hordes of little men,
Breaking the rules, the herms, the home, the hearth,
Instead of ”waters” again and again.

Where is the love? It’s in the space between
The two tongues flow and ebb and flow.
Surrounded by the cheeks, the lips, unseen.
”All ye know on earth”. ”All ye need to know”.

The wires say so-and-so loves so-and-so.
In such-and-such or such-and-such away.
Make them fuck off, wired voyeurs. make them go.
It’s all fucking, at the end of the day.

The will to life has tentacles in tongues.
When it don’t fill the wombs it fills the lungs.

Work Scum

Vile class-traiters who do not think it's fair
The workless don't work. While they're working. They're
Usually under-dressed, - educated
To think that way, controlled through their own heads.
Dole scum rise to the top, they think, becuase
Of some sort of strange lefty-loony clause
That sets them free to trample workers down
& mooch around at lunchtimes, drunk, in town,
While workers toil for everything that's good.
Just like unscummy, good citizens should.
But, ask yourselves - what does much work entail?
Making & selling crap. (Oh. Epic fail.)
While lager-swilling scum at least have time.
(& know that life's made of roses & wine.)

Energy

The lights are out. The lights are out. We are in the darkness.
Of man-made night. They use our fright. To fasten our harness.
The gods have flown. Out of their nests. Like unto birds they flew.
Wonder why you're not high? on life? Well, you know what to do.

Let darkness in. Let darkness in. If they won't leave you light
Just "keep on swimming" - godssakes don't go down without a fight.
The underworld awaits you & you're damned if you can't dive.
It's Mortal Combat, this is. Life: no-one gets out alive.

The Economy

The Economy

or 

homo economicus

Don't trust the homo economicus:
He is talking right out of his anus.
He makes me (& should make you) most anxious.

Don't trust the homo economicus:
His bloodymindedness is boisterous.
His brain is tiny, his ego bulbous.

Don't trust the homo economicus:
His wallet's elephantine - cumbrous.
The world's a stage. The world is his circus.

He is a fleur de mal. He's a crocus.

Hustings infiltrating every campus.
I would advise students to be cautious.
To reject his advances in chorus.
Refuse to give consent to coitus
(political or otherwise) conscious
of what's at stake. Emmigrate to Cyprus.
He is as trustworthy as a cactus.
He is as bitter as grapefruit. Citrus.
He wants to add your corpse to his corpus.
(He'll try, & all, however much you cuss.)
Would that he were careless as he's callous.

Don't trust the homo economicus:
He is as deadly as James Bond's discus.
He is an idiot - but he's dextrous.

Don't trust the homo economicus:
His finking's fucked, is brain is - fibrous.
He doesn't lack - but has too much - focus.
It were more fit to trust Doctor Faustus.
His heart ain't made of gold. It's more ... ferrous.
He wants to "get on", wants to"be famous".
But his brain's little more than a foetus
In a skull womb.
Trust Terence McKenna. & trust fungus.

Don't trust the homo economicus:
His gaze is empty, his speech gaseous.
What planet's he from? What is his genus?
The absurdity of it's just gorgeous.
His head is grimy. His head is gibbous.
He isn't great & he isn't gracious.
He isn't great. What he is is grievous. 

Don't trust the homo economicus:
Don't trust him, don't trust his hokey hocus.

Don't trust the homo economicus.
You're drowning, he's home dry on his isthmus.

Don't trust the homo economicus:
He is the ConDem. His is the Janus.
Down with the loan sharks, says I, says Jesus.
Imagine saying that out loud. Joyous.

Don't trust the homo economicus:
He is (most appositely) larcenous. 
Sharp-toothed as a wolf at a door. Lupus.
He is a ghostly bloodstain. The litmus.
His downfall will be lightning-fast, luscious.
Bear in mind he's infected. He's leprous.
The world beyond his barricade's lustrous.
Or his deep, dark & numbery locus. 

Don't trust the homo economicus:
If you are the plus, he is the minus.
May I suggest you get all mutinous?

Don't trust him, because the man is monstrous.

 He's a man. Just a man. He's no magus.
 He spews. He spews venom. He spews mucous.
Know that he will mince you in his modus.

Don't trust the homo economicus:
He's nonplussed & nonplussing. He's Nonplus.
He is noisome & he is noxious.
He makes me (& should make you too) nauseous. 
He makes me (& should make you) quite nervous.

Don't trust the homo economicus:
Your life. You or him - wherein the onus? 
Be the death march truncating his opus. 

Don't trust the homo economicus:
I know, I know, I know - he is parlous.
He is the minus & you are the plus.
Don't trust him, don't trust his hokey pocus.
He is a onemanband - let him percuss.
He'll deafen you. He will make you pious
re thing wrong things. & he is full of pus.
He'll take the solar out of your plexus.
He takes the pomp out of being pompous.
He is a - um, um, um - he's a ... phallus.
He is the minus & you are the plus.
He is chock full of holes. He is porous.
He is like gollum. He's like "my preciousssss".

Don't trust the homo economicus:
He rants more than I do. He is raucous.
He is raucous. He thinks he is righteous.
May I suggest an imminent rumpus? 
He is out of shape. He is a rhombus.
Let's put him out of joint. Have a ruckus.
His soul is dead, his - smile is rictus.

Don't trust the homo economicus:
He gets right up my nose, blocks my sinus.
(& is invertebrate & unspinous.)
Take up your pen! your pencil! your stylus!
Serenade him - your sarcasm sumptious.
So sumptuous that you produce a surplus.
His arguments are stonkingly specious.
So as its empty, his skull is spacious.
He is very sure of his own status.
I'm not. 

Don't trust the homo economicus:
Trenchant & terrible as The Typhus.

Don't trust the homo economicus:
He is from Mars. He isn't from Venus.

Don't trust the homo economicus:
If he's Good News then "I am the walrus". 

Don't trust the homo economicus:
Thank Christ he's too stupid to be zealous.