What dare I say re: my hometown, Accrington? That it ranks,
with its courts of law, town council, its police – for no thanks -
amongst the best in terms of mindful, selfless management
and governance? Do these protect us? Do they represent
our needs? That we by rote meekly delegate, acquiesce
then let them all shepherd our Stepford lives, without duress
or force, says so much against us. See, we don’t care as long
as we can keep shopping - and graze and booze and wag our tongues
about T.V.’s dumb zedlebrities. That’s all we ask, for
here in Poundland – our one-horse town’s more apt name – we abhor
real liberties. We’re fulfilled by the high street’s junk shops (those
that profiteer selling tat for a song, that grift in rows
for our cash); and we worship, too, at flash, cloned burger joints
and venal superstores that blind us with loyalty points.
It’s through these cheap signifiers that we measure our lives.
Who gives a shit for autonomy? We drones live in hives
here in Poundland. Give us shallow diversion; all the rest -
- values, morals – is moot: we don’t care to feather our nest.