Will we ever hear of Jamie T again?
Imagine Madonna disappearing like this.
Boris spending more millions on bike schemes
instead of housing kind of takes the piss.
Peddle through Spitalfields. You can now.
It’s tarmaced. An open air Harvey Nicks.
Kids stake claim in times they didn’t live
protesting change for mock-stalgic kicks.
It’ll never be cool to dance along to Lionel.
Pull the walls of yet more Tesco Locals down.
Beauty comes before morning commutes
caking make up on and looking a clown.
Affordable isn’t eight out of 2,000 new flats
that cost fifteen lifetimes of wage before tax.
Fair play to workers who cosy up to boss.
We’d play along too but aren’t built of toss.
Remember the sights of your naked eyes
not the screens of cameras and an aching arm.
Experience is life’s noises, smells and air
not the one dimension uploads of pixel farms.
Is it worth the effort plotting how to seem
for imaginary viewers to perceive certain ways?
Less consideration of one’s self as a brand
sparks more honesty at the end of the day.
Osborne’s face is painfully bright and bland.
A lot more would vote if they could elect Brand.
Is there more harm done by sleazy Robin Thicke
or married bankers crawling curbs, being tricks?
Hypocrisy and hype sells. It’ll stay the same.
Friends grow older and nights out become tame.
The quality of familiar rendezvous never wane.
Mates is Alex Turner hiring Miles Kane.
Nothing beats seeing someone reading a book
and wondering where their imagination might be.
The open world’s been in our minds all along.
Don’t wait for Grand Theft Auto V to feel free.
Grown men shouting it out on Sidney Street
arguing who’s right of way it might have been,
if hugged by their mothers when children
would be calm and not creating this scene.
Breathing’s as underrated as UK rapper Jehst.
It relieves stress and lets in peace.
We’re before banquets of food for thought.
Grip your best cutlery and guzzle down a feast.