Quango invites you to a roller disco.
Glide inline. Bring out your dead.
Prepare to be crowdsourced.
Wait for the punch to rearrange your cartilage –
make of your spine a cudgel
for the package holiday you booked reality up for.
A door reveals itself
like a nailbomb in the empty hangar
we cannot see the shopping centre as.
Quango welcomes all your quips,
sidesteps putdowns with flair.
In Limehouse there are lesions
on her forearms the shape of a foetus.
Turn, turn up and turn away.
Into clouds we go, sun and feathers
at our backs, laxatives in steaming cups.
If you don’t want them to watch, don’t look.
What we meant by content was content.
When we say YOU we mean – user.
O virtuous circle, let’s do without these
risky interactions. Everyone’s combustible.
Here are some aspects that make us unhappy:
blotchy tarragon sorbet on a bed of rocket;
the taxidermy of flesh. No, scrap that, we dig
taxidermy. Pins are needles. You’re practically
undead. Bury your spirit in a coffin of glass.
I am thin, I am beautiful, I go anywhere.