A Poem About Nothing/Scenes From A Popular Culture

You know, I’m trying to write

But try as I might, it’s all shite

Instead, I’ll consign some time,

While I’m still in my prime

On a poem about nothing

Or of nothing, about something

But I can’t think of what

Popular culture? Surely not?


Right okay, let’s see what I’ve got

Observations, but of not a lot;

A litany of Warhol inspired t-shirts,

Skinny jeans so tight they hurt,

Another shit sleeve tattoo,

To show that fashion hates you

And that you hate yourself,

By putting your imagination on the shelf


Where I find a bottle of Tomato Sauce

It sits satisfyingly in my hand

But it puts me at a loss

Heinz, why is it the brand?

See, you can find variety with ease:

Vietnamese, Lebanese or Japanese,

Or any restaurant you please

But you’d rather have chips ‘n’ cheese


All sweaty, like a sunny day by the Clyde

On the walkway big and wide,

Saw a lad showing his pride,

Wearing black leather gloves

With sparkly golden studs

That’s met with sniggers and shrugs

So it’s clear – individuality is for mugs,

Yet he ignored all these duds


Now appearing: Electronic cigarettes

But I can’t work them into any vignettes

Could they work as a pick-up line?

Hey baby, fancy some of my e-time?

Just another thought crime

From this silly mind of mine

It’s now lunch time, there goes the peace

Waddling, like a flock of geese,

There goes another, morbidly obese,

Drawn to the stench of grease


Sustenance is the new insanity,

With gluttony as a form of vanity,

Can be found in a generic football ground

Where nobody makes a sound,

As wealth and narcissism abound

Allegedly making the world go round

And they’re a usual sight in town,

Everyone walks with their head down,

Thoughtless, like drones,

While perusing their iPhones


So concerned with trying to be wise

It took me years before I surmised:

Few look at how society is devised,

As it allows our decadence to thrive

Such futility is hard to bear

With self-serving twats everywhere

It means the genocide will not be televised

Will not be televised, in Syria

But some shelling in Gaza

And the Twitter outrage is live

While another ATOS protest

Is ignored like all the rest


I tell you what I detest

The hypocrisy of us in the West

And the fucking Keep Calm meme,

That is ubiquitous in every scene

People parroting it without shame,

From their shitty intellectual plane

And I’m worse when I complain,

But only in my private domain


That’s usually where and when time

Seems so fleeting,

And you’re paralysed

Into doing nothing,

But watch your Twitter feed

Full of people, consumed by need

This next line doesn’t rhyme,

And so I agonised

Hoping for some serendipity,

To overcome its stupidity

Yet it was simply more lost time


Oh man, this poem is a mess

I’m playing checkers not chess,

Yet I confess I couldn’t care less

This is where you go – ‘ah bless’

And yes, it causes me distress,

Sticking to rhyming schemes,

Or even a constant theme

That can lead to an extreme

Me overusing a now trite meme:

Do you know what I mean?

About Wichita Lineman Was A Song I Once Heard

Wichita Lineman Was A Song I Once Heard. 'Mediocre blogger and a piously boring and unfunny writer'. Enthusiastic purveyor of the KLF sheep.
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