Kit Kelen #1367 - cervsiam et circenses - beer and circuses - or who gives a fuck about footy?

1367

cervisiam et circenses

(beer and circuses)

or

who gives a fuck about footy?

a new blasphemy for our times

a tickle in the scrum and kick

holy!

high tackle

change the sacred line-up

roll through rough and tumble

holy!

this soil on which

no holden cars

but roos aplenty

how dismally we’re failed with work

pianos to the tip

here’s a better world

where all are muscle

able, straight

can black be ever white?

team of CEO youngsters

all salaries uncapped

and doff to them

splash advertising

drink it in

after all there’s drought

it’s holy

some of us are actually on fire

even as we speak

shout, more like

do some dislocation, tear ears

gouge, leave love bites

bench

speak to the boys about

while the joint is sinking

poets, artists starve

a bet? you bet!

after market

it’s just before the weather always

imagine how it is in heaven?

that god who cannot speak

baits breath

and all of this is so foretelling

was that a forward pass?

pick a code

ping pong some say

and suck it up

punch the ball

bend willingly they tell in bed

where you come to admire

women have knitted for this

in a bin of sin it’s cold

have you noticed how the house is burning

permafrost’s let loose

how waves sweep over our heads

a comet falls

spill entrails

read

it’s always cops versus the robbers

they fill up my screen with such hopes

love it when the coach says ‘ladies’, ‘girls’

the young in one another’s arms

who doesn’t love the puppy leap?

and nothing to see here

how wry

dry humping love

is there music to it?

yes! anthem as to war

here come the sacred players

all opinion at

and

holy! holy! holy!

as are the stumps

so this ball, pitch

who took the drugs?

who brawled, who raped?

brought into disrepute?

the sacred values of the club

such as codgers keep

where in their beer

all weep

we know about booze and violence

the triumph over mind and art

ball shaped for a bucket and kick

how grand was your final?

someone loses

and after match

best, fairest

those defeated take on wife

or someone’s

almost always win

on the home ground

they camp out at the gates

swags enduring temperature

here, drink this

choke down a pie  

we’re lied to

robbed of

for instance, future

not even our own extinction would rouse

but that is far

there are many to go

still missiles point

so catch

and pass

and piss it in

all at the whim of madmen

born with certain colours to wave

and you, weren’t you (?), always sure

who do you barrack for?

meanwhile, in a forest somewhere

further from you

(how many football pitches an hour?

[the ball out of shape is the measure of all])

someone is up the last tree

almost equally speechless

but who gives a fuck?

under this pitch

black as

let’s dinosaur dig

there might be coal

or medieval hell

we’ll simply have to check

thicken the sky

till we dig there too

manage your anger

temper a grief

spoilers like me

so fucking correct

to think of the others

but, honestly, I don’t very much

handle my own weaknesses

legions to decimate

but footy – to watch – what is it good for?

I play a game of touch

with others of my ilk

the only thing of which I’m certain

this must be better than a war

to live in a crowd of shouting

it’s all with mother’s milk