This poem is not made in China, yet
by David Hallet
we... wish-list... big fish,
big brother, biggest loser, big survivor,
Big Idol, Big Prawn, Big Banana...
and the little battler... the sausages are burning
the books burning, the mosque burning,
the city smouldering on the midday news
the big screen whispering icons:
to Volvo or not to Volvo, that is the croissant
and tonights viewing is deja vu-deja vu-deja vu...
theres a billion starving versus a billion obese
god has left the auditorium (as if he was never there)
left to the alchemy of money-lenders
left to the suits of the dogs of the gods of war
(always the war) in their spin of fear,
the oil slick as blood
the dip-stick stuck deep in the side of a Saudi prince...
and tonights viewing (said the president) is:
CSI New York, Law & Order, Cold Case,
Silent Witness, Midsomer Murders, Missing Persons Unit,
Prison Break, Border Security, Justice League, Medical Emergency,
Entertainment Tonight and Good Morning America
the numbers begin to dance... this poem is not made in China, yet
but the pen, the paper, the cup, the candle, the desk, the chair,
the shoes, the clothes, the paper-clip, the toothpick, even the chopstick
made in China
we microchip dogs, soon we microchip everyone
(chipping away at ourselves)
as David Attenborough could say/would say:
they raped them and they cooked them and they ate them...
form a queue... the bombs keep falling on the Holy Land,
church bells ringing with the bombs (god has definitely left the auditorium);
the Saturday night bones are dancing
the metal detectors are going off all over the world
mission statement... should be:
soft rain/ thousands of kisses/ first birdcall, sunrise, sunset,
mist that fills the forest/ moon sailing and the milky way
milking across the night
and not the nightly news (and love)
this poem is not made in China, yet.
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