Myra And Morrissey Blue-Sky Thinking
from Fifty
© Gerry Potter, 2012

Hitting a brick wall
Is like hitting a brick wall
Is like hitting a brick wall
Is like hitting a brick wall.

My feet are weighted with poems.
They're bricks keeping puppies company
In a bag of drowning.
My poems are a hopeless sound,
One more yelp
One more gurgle.
My words are squealing "mummy" in dog.

Bored of gritty terracotta walls,
The glitchy rat-slime of canals,
Bored of virtual silverfish feasting off the flesh
Of dead prostitutes,
Of being told children aren't poor
Because they own Grand Theft Auto.

Gotten used to the back of my head bouncing off red-brick walls.
 
Ouch!

I'm the chairman of the bored!

I look at the Manchester sky and Myra and Morrissey
Are clouds duetting,
Singing "Raining In My Heart".

Look at the telly.
The coke song has taught the world to spend,
Fascists are teaching us to marry
And Kylie once again says La La La.
The only thing she ever said.
 
Is there a video game of this
So I can shoot me after I've raped me
And throw the money I should've earned
Over the limp of my dead body?
 
Hard to find the shine when they've taxed the sun.
 
Hard to cross the road when you know you're right.
 
So here's The Blues.
Another poem about Capitalism and rain,
Another stab in the dark,
A blind man in a blackout the size of China
Hoping he'll get a lucky strike.
Like impossible.
Like pin the personality on Peter Andre.
Like Myra and Morrissey blue-sky thinking.
 
Like the head of a prostitute hitting a red-brick wall
Before she's dumped in a canal,
Before she's turned into a video game,
Before the silverfish.
 
It's like that second before I'm told children aren't poor
Because they own Grand Theft Auto.