The world is peopled with linguistic dunces;
fools who do not appreciate the true nature
of their own foolishness,
which is to stab their mother tongue in the back
every time they open their moron mouths.
The clumsy word assassins. The meaning murderers.
Timewasters extraordinaire.
Those whose self-appointed task
is to transform the language into a wasteland
of bombed out ugliness.
To listen to them
is the auditory equivalent
of having to look at a skyline of modern architecture
for your summer holidays.
Are they unconsciously playing a game
of Who Can Confuse the Listener the Most?
That the world of chrome and glass
lionises these lunatics
is, as they would say, on point.
After all, aren’t their hearts made of
the same plastic as their credit cards?
Aren’t their smiles as authentic as a Happy Meal?
At least their disdain for beauty in all things is
consistent.
Look at the buildings they inhabit
and realise that it couldn’t be any other way.
Everything’s infected now, even the world of poetry.
Poetry? Pah!
Nascent poets,
if you think that you need one of these fatheads
to provide you with inspiration,
in the form of a gormless writing cue,
then I have some bad news:
abandon writing, it’s clearly not your thing;
you may as well take up something
like hammering nails into balloons,
rewiring all of the apples in your fruit bowl,
or building a full-size model version of your house
out of cat hair and resentment.
Hey! I love your poems, man!
Where do you get your ideas from?
‘Oh, them,’ you should say. ‘Well,
like all of the world’s greatest artists,
I get my ideas from a Workshop Facilitator.’
The eulogy for the slow death of civilisation
is being delivered ten thousand times a day
in order to facilitate an optimised future going forward.
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