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.