He bumps into a bench, jumble of books, papers
under his arms, sits beard on belly, stares at a tree,
found himself in Starbucks an hour ago looking across
to a golden M, people dressed oddly, shouting at things
held to their ears, giving strange money to bargirls,
bitte, wievel kostet, prosze, familiar accents, looks
at a book, frowns, shakes his head, it’s the translation,
No, he didn’t say that, picks up a news-paper, stares
in disbelief at page three, on four a picture of Bush
on his first visit to Asia and somewhere before
Gazza ‘Aza Dazzler two lines that say India
gets a McDonalds - did he not say the state is but
a committee for managing the affairs of the bourgeoisie?
Thinks back to his coffee, gazing out the window,
vehicles flashing past posters my ipod my music
my life smiles, lips shape the words technological
determinism, looks up, pink clad ‘chavs’ all around him,
aggressive blind eyes, tight pony tails, point at him,
loser, they chant, loser, fuckin’ loser.
http://www.kenchampion.org.uk/
