Poem: Something or other


Something or other

I am a twenty-first century twenty something or other,

I am vague and distorted and I don’t give a shit,

I am liberal with myself but conservative in general,
I am Thatcher’s child, I know that sex is death,
and happiness is transitory.

I hang with fantastic cherubs with punchable faces,
Cheshire cat smiles and a hard sell on happiness,
I pull my boxers up over my low-slung jeans
To CK-show everyone that even my
pants are expensive.

I read No Logo in Starbucks, drank Starbucks in lectures,
On the left-right dichotomy, swallowed Chomsky whole,
I hide my Heat under my Economist, my heart under bravado: I like to think I am ‘true to myself!’
and I’ll repeat this statement … often …

I fear terrorists and socialists and people who don’t like The Streets: He’s like a ‘modern day Shakespeare!’
The Guardian told me.
I like my brutal in bite-size, wide-eyed like the truth’s too shocking; But I do like Jon Snow’s ties, he’s like, totally
my hero…

I’m a human being stock-cube, I need a cool dark space,
To stay in ‘til I crumble under the weight of
Objective truth, which I don’t believe in anyway,
We make up the world,

Every single day.

And mine is a place where space is for filling,
Where silence has been almost totally eradicated,
With traffic hoots, beeps and the turning
On and off of a
billion televisions.

I watch E4 and T4, I smirt and I blog,
I love you, I hate you, I know nothing about the world.
I have a negligible sense of history thus think feminism’s for twats: Don’t want no tube-tying, ball-breaking,
man-hating image!
I want an iPod, to salsa and a guilty Big Mac.

I live in a world where God has yet to be replaced with
Something more than transience and ‘Happy Abortion!’ cards. I’m a solipsist in this circus where expensive
personalities come cheap: Where you can break into heaven with one swipe of your Visa.

I get my morals from the pick n mix section at Woolies,
Sometimes I’m peanut brittle, sometimes I just fudge.
I picked up a DIY cutting kit from French Connection,
I think misery is interesting,
As is seeing your lunch… twice…

Everyone I know brandishes guilt, has a pit to crawl out of,
Like a weapon against the comfort we have,
Me? I’m just guilty of not feeling guilty

For not knowing what the Make Poverty History march
Was actually about: spent my time counting the pairs of Nike trainers instead,
And wondering what I would do later that night,

Let’s face it – the world mighta blown up by Wednesday,
So anyway – what do you reckon to

Julian Assange?

I have the attention span of a goldfish,
And the emotional range of a caravan park.
And my bowl is stirred with plenty of sugar
And cocaine and… what was I on about?

Oh yeah! So…
The world’s gone to shit in a kitty litter tray,
Just set the laser printer to ‘stun’ and go fuck someone pretty…
I’m a twenty first century twenty something or other,
I am labelled, I’m distorted,
I will do whatever you tell me.

I’m an individual. Original.
The best target market…
I hate this vapid whore of life,
I am so lonely I could scream.
I don’t know what love is, don’t know who my friends are,
Sometimes I wish I could believe in things you can’t see…

Believe in… something or other…
Believe in… other worlds at the back of wardrobes…
Believe in… fawns n’ shit…

But I’ll smash a fist through the mirror before asking what the point is,
I’ll contemplate combustion when I hit 36,
I am a twenty-first century twenty something or other,
I am vague and distorted and I don’t give a shit.

Jenny Lindsay
Poet

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