By and | 31 January 2013

Short on shimmy
they took to the disco
with a resounding

whomp of white
& solid silver
waves of wire;

a platform
to berate from,
a wag the dog diorama;

wearing only your shadow
& shouting
to the stomping throng

a backroom
storm shelter, a platform
euphoria, plagued your

halfway to decent
anti-progressive, rational
yet strident monologue

pitched at doomsayers
of the glitterati, low-lobbers
& pinch-hitters

who’d forgotten
how their IDs were burned
back in the days before credit

slalomed through car
dealerships & foaming

leaving only ‘the market’
to determine aesthetics
& solicit

dinner dates
where an oasis
was a hedge fund

leaking liquid security
where trade isn’t free
& big bubbles can fry

a factory superstar:
crystal ball shimmering
in the trash, Chelsea Girls

worn & scratchy prints
ditched as war begins –
black monday, 1987

flickers left of field
& radiators are left
glowing through summer

as they loose a lemma
on the the green valley
of silliness

or call the bananas
out of the republic: the proposal
we just had to have

& grew to love
as much as anything
that might save us from ourselves

or shakedown trance
at one hundred & fifty beats
per minute –

fast enough
to blast extreme sports
off the mountains

& rattle
sheer glass walls
of a tycoon’s penthouse

yet not powerful enough
to change the way
we live

in Cold War bunkers
abandoned only because
they’ll hold out none of the blast

while they wait for recuperation
as delirious museums,

where tektites
rain down through
glorious night’s sunshine

& marsupials skitter
& forage
like strewnfield wastrels

counting on fine bones
dazzling paleontologists
& amusement park operators

whose scandium-lit roundabouts
take science
for a ride

which is tantamount
to messing under
the hood

when you don’t know anything
about it, not engineering,
not nuthin

to shimmy by
when the moon is lustrous,
a beacon through space junk

sensitizing bruise & swoon
where we flounder
in waves of static

swooning & schmoozing,
collating best hits lists,
stuck on K-Tel’s Ripper ’76

that nobody remembers,
it’s the latest constraint –
the no-nostalgia radio list

we fret over, squabbling
over the slice, the ear-horns
and his master’s voice

booming from the box
locking & popping & flipping –
impossible to mix

the schmooze, the swoon,
those ear-horns & hits,
platform shoe extravaganzas –

I’ve got all my life to live,
I’ve got all my love to give
& I’ll survive, I will survive, I will survive

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