CLOUD 9

what are these repetitive electronic noises?

the sonic youth of our annoying generation,

the walking dead of our weekends:

is it just me or am I repeating myself?

revolution number 9/

on cloud 9 again

as we pretend this never happens

when actually,

it's not the first re-enactment of the night

nor the last

we hide behind the go faster stripes of glitter
on our shit-stained faces/

facing up to the fact
that there's some things shiny bits of plastic can't cover

and 2 lovers entwined in each other's thighs behind a burger van

isn't remotely romantic
but the pinnacle of the hopeless antics we're expected to perform
 

great expectations aren't so great when we're expected to supply:

acts of mediocre violence,

getting high

and trying to score another notch on the bedpost/

hoping you'll grow out of the phase you're going through

even though it's been going strong
for a decade too long
already,

steady,

cook
your brain slowly
over 30 days of a cruel summer:

a bananarama nightmare

frightening when you think that last night
the pink lights of the portaloo

were enough to keep you amused for hours,

distracted from the grandeur of the day:

more fake than gold teeth
or the beef in the Tesco ready meal you've already thrown up/

a grown up but slowly dying modern man

standing on the soft bulletin beneath you

trying to understand how 4 fingers and 1 thumb makes a hand/

at least until it's in your pocket

with all the other things that you forgot/

the rocks of whatever you cleverly hid in your sock can't help you now

as cowboys and Indians spin round your head

you get head then get hurt/

learning that her fur coat is as real as she is

and jesus is just another man with a fag in his mouth,

standing over there,

caring less about you than he ever did/

in the strange,
strange
reality

we call the twilight sadness of this place