He holds the whole world in his hand
Perfectly pinched between the finger and thumb-span
Turns up the brightness, modern day Atlas,
Battling the buffer curtailing the show he covets.
Carving an idol to idleness, graven images
Engraved into irises by fruity viruses.
If one a day keeps the doctor away
Then by the 6s he’s practically undead,
Kept alive by the backlit blue illuminations
That dehumanise him in bed.
Doesn’t even nod his head,
Just breath after breath – steady, steady
Silently static, mr anti-erratic,
Pneumatically pneumonic,
Fresh air is the tonic,
No tectonics for the Teutonic,
Just tramadol for Sonic. Or some chronic,
To take the edge off the chronicles chronicled in his cranium.
Hair spread thin like the last of the butter,
Like or lump it he ain’t no crumpet,
Just crunched up, hunching,
Probs Pret A Manger lunching,
Curled in the corner,
Thumb in the socket, Jack Horner,
Bored with Law and Order,
Ordered the headphones from Bose
White plastic shellac sounds silent on the underground –
Shit, here comes the climax to the show,
But – wait – No! No! No!
You’re taking the piss with the buffer’s ebb and flow,
Where’d the fucking wifi go??
Who’s the real killer?
I guess we’ll never know!