Postcard From The Verge

When you claim to be my judge
You will floor my ailing defence
That will be your penance
And in turn my recompense

I am a filter-less tab
Struck against a gilded case
Lit at either end
Debased, Defaced
Stubbed-out conjoined twins
Who made the most of your Ritalin

In your sterile cesspool
Your plastic jewels
Speak of languished retinues
And what they did to you
What did they do to you?

Ameliorate my condition
Distemper my attrition
Better me wetter
Fetter my betters
A blithe ejection from
This Thatcherite Britain

This is a postcard from the verge
And you can pay the postage

A descent into my mind
A decent matter disinclined
To lick the bitters from your tongue
Clamped, encased in youth-less slime
Such a grand and vulgar temple
For such a narcissistic devil

You notarise our misplaced fame
And yet a less surprising marvel
Our raging self-disgust
Makes us first but an animal
And servant to combust
Your hateful megalomania

My mood is my weather
If I’m told to walk my clouds off
They won’t get better
Until the ray drenched cells
Illuminating jezebels
My foregone intruders
Plan my forecast
For a hundred futures

© Owen Emmerson & Michael Whitehead (2012)


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