I can’t go outside any more

The pavement is piling up with

guts spilling out of

middle aged men wearing short-sleeved collared shirts and wayfarers

or when non-collared they wear aviators and the odd tattoo.

Who pout ’cause they only came out to find the misplaced 20-something

anorexics with daddy issues in clubs that cater to 20-something closet douche bags

who never had a dad.

In the thick of all of this I feel as if I’m the last insane man

stuck in a society tasked with defining sanity;

a dead end challenge

’cause the bankers control the banks,

controlling the politicians controlling parliament cheered on

by red-blooded, blue-haired geriatrics whose racism is excused

in favour of a diplomatic solution that dictates

complacency in the form of an aid blockade of the continent of Africa

that can only be saved by Brad or Tom — or their girlfriend, whoever that might be—

or by you, dear viewer, by giving a dollar a day to Catholics who’ll stop AIDS

by stopping condoms.

The worst thing is the feeling I get at protest rallies

when the protesters test out their iPods by blaring misplaced tunes at misplaced cops

and swear they are here to stop slave labour in china

or Gaddafi in Libya

or Abbot in Canberra

or Doyle in Melbourne,

but really just want to see how much time they can take off work

before the bank forecloses on their subscription to overland.

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