Alter

cathy cathode raised me when momma wasn't there (which was frequently)

and fun and games console my soul wholey; a flashback to my delinquency.

say ga-ga. say, Sega
say goodbye to my drive

no sooner free from the uterus and into toys r us,
where i'm lost in a temple of tat.
neglegence tells me to cry
and dad'll hear the tears through a muffler of beers
and the fuss'll make his wallet russle,
coz it's easier than tussle;
than having to deal with the hustle and bustle.

baptised in binary and branded Mckenzie,
sidekick to my siblings Carbrini, Diadora and Elise,
there wasn't much choice outside the crappy shopper,

so that's what i learnt.

that's what made me proper.

later in life, when i t1ed the kn0t,
to a mail order wife, who wanted what she got,
it was down the aisle of the House of Frasier.
,,,i tried to ALT+R at the altar,

but an advert stained

the glass screen,
so as to block my cocked alternative.

and she said her vows without kicking or screaming.

maturity's meaning.

now,
my child,

waiting his turn

for a carpet burn,
will ride the helta-skelta at the unfair.
surfing slippery spirals back down to earth.
he hits the turf.
bruised bum: go on my son: don't be dumb.

again-again on the merry-go-round.

no speaking when seeking nutrition from a leaking,
breast of a propper gander's teat
coz we're sitting duck pate with no real meat.
real meetings with birds? like the tweet of words?
instead i'm twittering at a screaming screen,
which i've twitched to mute.

and though i remember my commitments and am still emphatic
it's just the same old shit on the box of static.

Money

i pick up Jethro from school. it's his first week and i've never been responsible for a child before. what the fuck? it dawns on me, as the kid clambers all over the disabled railings, screaming king kong, that, as a diplomat of someone elses parenthood, i'm probably expected to excercise a degree of discipline (or something). i blink at the herd of - mostly mothers - all of whose children appear dutifully restrained and under control. jesus. am i supposed to play the fascist here? am i supposed to "tell him off"? God. it's daunting. as one of my own i'd feel at liberty to allow my own agenda "don't tell me how to raise my kid!". but i'm awkward - stuck there - with someone else's life.

"c'mon Jethro - you don't want to stay here at school do you?" i try...
"NO"
"well shall we go then?"
"NO"
"yeah, easy for you to say, you little alien. you don't know what you want"
"i want ice-cream"
"ice-cream? that seems like a plausible escape"

"...i've got a fat coin. look!"

Jethro reveals a secret pound from his tiny fist. what a hustler! then he's pointing to a van - parked metres from the school gates - coz you know, they don't miss a trick. and before you can say marketing-to-children, i'm standing there in the queue with Jethro; like a fucking dickhead. He eyes up the map of frozen deserts with frantic fascination and after a chain of changes of mind, picks out a terrifying melting clown face whose eyes drip colourful E-numbers when in the sticky hands of a child. Jethro keeps close eye contact with the vendor and is clearly keen to make the transaction. i lift him up.

"keep my fat coin safe. if you dont - i'll chop your bum off!" fucking yes, Jethro.

the world cup final was so dull I literally fell asleep…

The fashion of sportswear is a popular joke. A well-funded marketing campaign creating a temporary vogue which commits suicide a season later, doomed to become I-heart-the-recent-past ridicule. Shorts become long, then shrink in the boiling tide of flagellant-fashion. Then they turn tight, then baggy, then long again.

Boxers wear boxers and Tennis Players wear tighty-whities; fresh with the fragrance of DAZ. And who - even when the style itself indicates athletic prowess, from head-hugging sweat bands to astro-turf grip trainers and the matters of friction - is licking their lips at the sight of a sodden polo V-neck?

The rich-kid disaster of golfers' dress code is even worse, despite all the investment-power available to the sport from trendy sponsors. it makes me cringe: cardiganed-caddies, burning their fair skin, on the slow golf course where the wild things aren’t

Carnal war-paint and peacock feathers that ruffle at the sight of opposition have been sacrificed in favour of the polite-white of professional hobbies and corporate-past-times. Acknowledging the traditions of conservative uniforms that stem from Fox-Hunting-Standards and Royal-Etiquette.

And the snooker bars are so devoid of class, yet in the public eye it becomes a bow and tie affair. Prim and proper, playing on virgin tables, never puked on, never fucked on, never danced on by a woman called Crystal. What can I say? They’re missing out. On the table-tapping freedom with intoxicated hot-shots.

And then I think… is it only darts that keeps it real? No fooling, or attempt to stop the fuelling of a gut feeling that permeates through to the highest and simultaneously most shallow forums for pinning a spike to cork. But at least there’s no uniform. No lapels of false confidence. No bright feathers, but instead faded stains, voicing other commitments.