Not sure if this is a poem or a song or just a rant, but I was tired of sitting in Doha international airport drowning in the useless products of late capitalism:
***
I am so not interested in your New York Times bestseller list
with its endless screeds on how to be a feng-shui asshole in business;
I am so not interested in your favourite new-fangled gadget
– I don’t care what it does while you ignore those around you;
I am so not interested in your overweeningly hip craft beer
with its coyly underbrewed, oversweet stench;
I am so not interested in your Dalai Lama lecturing me on joy
when he uses his title though Desmond Tutu uses his name
I am so not interested in your Hugo Boss perfume
– that queer old Sturm Abteilung scent of fruit salad;
I am so not interested in your slickly-branded clothing range
– it’s poorly stitched, doesn’t hang well, and won’t last the season;
I am so not interested in your vacuous attempts at artworks
that say zero about the dangerous philosophies of death and fucking;
I am so not interested in your po-faced robotic news-channels
that feed us tidbits of tragedy like the macaws we are;
I am so not interested in the faux contestations of sports matches
– run by mobsters and profiteers and mistaken for fun;
I am so not interested in your latest social media monster
because yonks ago some dinosaurs even had two brains;
I’m so not interested in the vacuum of your trans-Atlantic flight
- it’s just another kind of bus, but you’re still the same kind of kine;
I am so not interested in your anodyne mimicry of politics
– nice folks are jailed and gunned down each day for less;
I am so not interested in your shallow ruminations about the soul
– because, “brother,” I’ve never seen you really get down.
[ENDS]
