You are the cock-crow of gaudiness, a plastic
figurine obsessed with make-believe. Good
heavens, was there ever matter where you
situate, a left and right of you? I know there
is no depth – no obverse side to uni-linearity,
set sideways it’s my guess you’d disappear.
Your claim to fame is merely that – your claim.
It’s based on second-hand belief uttered in
a press of incredulity; a sceptic grandstanding
to an audience naive and undiscerning, a play
on words which rarely praise – the prey, a few
who don’t behave or doff their hats to you.
Well damn you and your sycophants – may
Halls in Hell expand enough to cater for your
ego man, for sure you’d take it too. Without
it you would be deformed, all arse for mouth
on spindly legs, no spine, instead a carapace
of funk and bunk and squalid barrenness.
© 23 January 2008, I. D. Carswell
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