I am haunted by Damon Albarn.
My morning newspapers talk of his breakups.
By evenings, reunion tales ring in my ears.
Tours with old bands but without animations
or new animations with old bands
churn on frame after frame of dullness.
Office people as far removed from edginess
as Leona Lewis in the middle of a moon’s crater
wear crusty year old wristbands of shows long gone.
Friends of a friend’s friends at house parties
corner me for eternities, vomiting out words
of misjudged greatness and importance.
At night I dream of God reaching down,
pulling the roof off his house in the country
and snapping all the medieval instruments
so all that’s left for him to do is go for a drink,
find a girl, make babies and leave us all alone.
I am haunted by Damon Albarn.
Please someone, put him away.