I wrote this poem as a song. Anybody fancy putting music to it??
Armageddon
The punters are somnambulant
As the host aims for his mark.
Dull-eyed and whooping
Lacking any spark.
The celebrities strut their stuff
In lacklustre lime light.
As drones and goons
Track their victims
In the latest fight.
All is quiet in flat screen heaven
On the hundred inch screen
As the punters get their fix.
Bankers cream percentages
Politicians play their tricks.
It’s always twilight and decadence
In the great society.
We’re living in the twilight zone
Of what used to be.
Always on the brink
Of some great disaster.
The planet has the answers
But nobody chose to ask her.
All is quiet in flat screen heaven
On the hundred inch screen
As the punters get their fix.
Bankers cream percentages
Politicians play their tricks.
Outside on the fringes
Nature struggles on.
Every single part of it
Sold for a song.
As the actors take their bow
It remains fifty fifty
A slow increase in temperature
Or end it all quite swiftly.
All is quiet in flat screen heaven
On the hundred inch screen
As the punters get their fix.
Bankers cream percentages
Politicians play their tricks.
The game has never changed.
Power is its name.
As kings and bishops wrestle
On the crooked road to fame.
The audience is noisy.
Oblivious to reality.
As dad provides the bread
And mum pours the tea.
All is quiet in flat screen heaven
On the hundred inch screen
As the punters get their fix.
Bankers cream percentages
Politicians play their tricks.
So up the drug production.
Keep the booze a-flowing.
With surveillance cameras scanning
For those who are all-knowing.
They’ll deploy the goons tonight
As the last tree is cut.
The last kangaroo mown down
And the world outside is shut.
All is quiet in flat screen heaven
On the hundred inch screen
As the punters get their fix.
Bankers cream percentages
Politicians play their tricks.
Welcome to the future.
A plastic universe.
Where hosts with perfect teeth
Act as your daytime nurse.
Watch ‘Grab the Cash’ and sip
Your happy juice.
You could, of course, protest.
But what would be the use?
All is quiet in flat screen heaven
On the hundred inch screen
As the punters get their fix.
Bankers cream percentages
Politicians play their tricks.
Opher 19.4.2024
As I write this in 2024 we’re still playing the same game, edging even closer to the finale.
Outside the comfort of my room reality is raging. Everyone is struggling to seize a bigger share. Power and wealth are all that matters. The consequences inconsequential.
I am distracted by the latest binge series and sip a glass of red. There are a hundred channels of soccer and half a million soaps. No need to go out. The groceries are delivered. In town the tough lads and scantily clad girls get drunk and pair off in a mist of ethanol and hormones. Nobody pays any attention to what is going on.
So the wealthy set the rules for the game and the politicians are bought and sold. Nature is a commodity and the future is bankrupt.
They organise their wars, deploying all their pawns. Life is cheap in paradise – for the many. While the elite cream off their profits and buy the moon. The rest of us play in cesspits, starve or slave and watch the world on plastic screens, eager for the next episode.
The skies are full of missiles and drones. The bombardments reduce everything to rubble.
The remnants of nature cringe. Forests give way to motorways. Goods must be delivered. Creatures are pests to be eradicated. The temperature outside rises as the satellites pinpoint their targets.
The final curtain is about to be lowered as the last scenes are played out.
The end is yet to be determined. It’s a dance. Slow slow quick quick slow.
The universe doesn’t care.
Unfortunately, the game continues and the innocent suffer.
Always the innocent!! Those who cause the trouble watch with amusement from their penthouse suites.