Rob Hack
for Scott Guy
The young men are restless, generation x y kill
ambiguous gender vicarious thrill
soft and hair free, pyrotechnic on RTDs.
Crazy old life, Toffler’s Future Shock
the silver tsunami, the end of a golden age
who bought the golden kiwi.
Yeats’ order of the golden dawn, rave on
John Donne, pork chow mein at the Golden Horn
rave on solid gold hits, Cher with her silicon bits,
txt in and win multi-dysfunctional plasma screen
bigger than a Texas hangman’s wallet.
You wanna fry with that?
I hear deafness is officially an epidemic. Did you hear that?
Pollution promulgated as a possible patsy, perhaps
a parasite perforated your cochlea.
More likely one loud party too many folks
not the parliamentary type but
the personal pandemic of I pod, therefore I am.
P. Pornography perused by a political pacesetter
pissing off the punters and pub peepers peering
at pairs of panties paraded by pole-dancing performers
enhanced by performance enhancers.
Speaking of, striking union members rise at a Viagra factory.
The world seems crazy for pills, pills make you crazy
for pills, crazy like 20% of Aotearoans, apparently.
Not me. I’m too busy chatting with my million friends
on Facebook. Headache? I take 37% improved Panadol
and feel 49% better. Inserts upsize so you don’t
disappoint the missus when really it’s about preliminary
words soft touches and kisses, nowadays unused like Tiger’s
little black book or the Gov. General filling out a tax form.
Unlikely as John Key not saying ‘Aushtralia’ or
Maradona chillin’ out watching Argentina lose.
Misunderinterpretated as a Sarah Palin line,
as is, why people shoot people on driveways,
rather they shoot over lingerie pamphlets stuffed
in letterboxes by schoolkids as often as the armed
offenders are called out, as often as a Paekākāriki poet
gets spotted at the bar doing the Aussie haka.
