CONSPRACY THEORY
You say no-one can tell you what to do;
You are not wearing a mask.
You talk about your human rights
But what about mine I ask.
Nobody’s vaccinating you;
It’s all a conspiracy.
They’ll inject a micro-chip in you
So they’ll always know where you ‘ll be.
But if you refuse to wear a mask,
And won’t have the injection,
Just keep well away from me,
I don’t want to risk infection
You say nobody landed on the moon;
It was all an elaborate hoax,
Filmed in a disused warehouse
With a couple of actor blokes.
You probably think the earth is flat
And believe the scientists lied.
So why don’t you take a trip to the edge
And throw yourself over the side?
18th December 2021
King Size Bull Crap Poetry Contest
Sponsor - Charles Messina
Me a zombie?
Never!
Just a viral doofus poseur,
Brainiac and hacker on the loose tapping into other genie lamps,
Wireless Stikbot floater skipping ID challenge.
Hurdles that authenticate saliva from a silicone palate.
Trojan horse webber getting kicks from pop up photos and their tick box phasers.
Magic putty slideshows arfe my fix,
Overlapping gotchas in the cryptic mainframe,
zapped on sight.
Cookies nerd obsessive, parasitic nibbler on limitless net feeds,
Humanoid, human void,
vacuum mouse pad tracker ball bane.
Foxy email phisser,
wolf amid the Wiki swathes at random,
memory never full.
Sabouteur who pinpoints rootkit channels,
silently installing gridlock pixels deep freeze.
But I am not a robot,
just some micro chip app monger, macro chip on shoulder and those other parts designed by desktop surgeons,
sideline sci-fi wise guy not so wise,
hi-tech buff illusion in a hall of mirrors dash into the ether.
Me this CoderDojo mass encryption tangle,
blue moon barcode surfer, Janus-faced,
mutant bit part player who has somehow lost his byte!
Written January Twenty First Twenty Twenty
After seeding the clouds
they were going to buy wet lips.
Seven minutes to make a bomb :
a micro-chip, ammonium nitrate and a circuit,
one headless body squirts a long jet of blood.
Run, run for the cover, with nuggets of
wailing times. Black walls intercept the flames.
A nimbus suspends the door.
Cryptic commands fail. A body sprawls
on payment for wheels to move. You
hand me a child to find his bilolgical mother.
A long manifesto makes the cadaver shrink.
Clocks spin in frenzy. Mirrored people
look like ghosts. A city burns.
SATISH VERMA
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