FACT OR FICTION?

These are dangerous days,
When it’s so fucking hard,
To distinguish the line,
Between ficticious truth
And new facticious lies.
Questions posed, never read,
Surveillance plutocrats
Reshape human demands,
Influence how we think,
When we think, what we think,
Soon to be where we think.
They rule us by knowing
Who we are, what we like,
What we do, where we go.
We happily tell them
Everything, every day,
Every time we log on.
But it is not the tech,
That fucks up all our lives,
It’s Capitalism
In the most vicious form.
Those who buy our data,
Who mine our very lives,
Undo democracy,
Destroy skills and knowledge,
Plough into the unknown,
Elevate the richest,
Denigrate the many,
Google server goldmines,
Rich veins keep on giving.
Fill our heads with nonsense,
Encourage Q-Anon,
Keep our minds occupied,
Whilst we stop watching balls.
This social media,
Filled with fact…. or fiction,
Will it last forever?
How will we ever know?

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 19th February, 2021

BACK TO NEW BIZARRO NORMAL

No party raves in the front room
Friends and neighbors have got to go.
Reapers again clean weaponry,
New wave rolls on in Autumn sun.
With speed of light crash now arrives,
Us boomers, isolated still,
Watch fearfully behind curtains.
New normal unfolds fitfully,
Tory game unravels, full pelt,
No deflection can close our eyes
No political alibis,
Their spin has spun, we see through lies,
Watch piggies in Westminster stys,
As they place blame upon us all
Charades and faux walls start to fall,
They can’t placate us with football,
Where’s the people’s clarion call?
The whole facade is out of hand.
You need a test? Go to Scotland.
Don’t own a car? That’s your lookout,
Spads now deaf as we scream and shout.
Understand what it’s all about,
The immune herd, the truth is out,
Statistics no more carry clout,
Their information counts for nowt,
Nobody listens anymore,
To those who do not know the score,
Boris seems to be having fun,
Smirking as he gets Brexit done.
Glib postures won’t seal up the crack
Through which the knives fly to his back,
Thrown by his own, through smoke and flack,
This then the cost of being slack.
Tomorrow we go to the sea,
Must get away from misery,
Spend precious time with family,
Time flies, we might be next, d’you see?…….

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 9th September 2020.