Fata Morgana with the Freshwater 5

(If you see something that)
Doesn't look right
Speak to staff
Or text
The British Transport Police
On
61016

We'll sort it

See it
Say it
Sort it

Thirty-nine swab tests later

And I'm still
Inconclusive

Not the first time
I've been told
I'm hard to read

Anyway

I'm logging out
And I won't be saving
My password for 2020

It's 2021
And I'm still behind
On lip-service payments

But
That's by the by
I'm still haunted by

Some recent exhibitionism
A case study in ghostmodernism

And what follows

Is a vague recollection
Of a
Fleeting
Feeling

An ex-talk show host
Exhibiting
The excluded lower bodies
From Ancient Greek busts

In the alley
Behind the
Pop-up
Concept
Lemonade stand

It wasn't long before
The inhuman resources got to him

Like a dissonant
Flower basket

He was to be tried
Tried again
And left to hang

Standing at the gallows
Made from dried
Glittery macaroni

And thinking of the
Alpha
Beta and Z Generations

The ex-talk show host requested
An epitaph in WingDings

And under his expiration date
It's what's on the other side that counts

He went out with a bang
As well as a crack

Playing to the gallery
As the noose was fastened
Okay Google the nearest exit

Wry smiles
Polite laughter

His post-career choices
Were a gamble

If
I were to follow suit
I'd prefer roulette
Where the odds
Against me
At best are
37 to one

Counting the crowd
His were 743 to one

And in the end
The joke was on me

It wasn't my style
Curating such
Niche-eh stuff

It was too cosy with
The Sheitgeist

Neither do I gamble

I spend the majority of my time
Reading out of date menus
Off-road maps
And tourist pamphlets
For places that no longer exist

You know
Non-fiction

I could tell something was off
My snide-y senses had begun to tingle

And what had started as a tingle
Became a full-blown tango

As I realised
That everyone
Was blinking
In sync
To myself

My suspicions were confirmed
When I stared straight ahead
Without a flicker of an eyelid
For 37 minutes

And
I was joined by
743 Spectators
Who didn't bat an eyelash

The ex-talk show host
Noose still tied to his neck

Pulled an armchair up to the stage
Leant back

Began asking
The hangman
About his latest book

I felt bad for the executioner

He was clearly embarrassed
By this impromptu plug

Some questions
Hit some
Sore spots

Namely
His introduction of the
Unpaid internship programme
During the Spanish Inquisition

He must not have imagined
That morning as he had a shave
Before putting on his hood

That he would be the one
Later that day
Put on the spot

He faltered
Stuttered
Messed up his lines

In what could've been
A tribute to Tommy Cooper

It was the
Executioner
Turned
Ghostwriter
Who died
On stage
That day

The spectacle before me
Transpired to be

An elaborate scheme
A well-executed
Performance piece

The bloodthirsty public
Were paid actors

The barnacles
Attached to a
Ship of deceit

It was
However salty
A free ride

Tired
Bored
And paranoid

I left the set
And entered the afterparty

Met
By anti-socialites
And impossible circles to square

I quickly boiled into non-existence
Like leek in risotto stock

I don't know
What hurts
My cochleas more

Deconstructing art
With eclectic choral drilling

Or

Deconstructing art
With a chorus of electric drills

Alone
I wondered

If I too
Was waiting
In the departure lounge

Like the ex-talk-show host
Low-budget Lazarus

Would I be happy
With the amount
Of stuff
I had liked
On
Instagram

If
As De Botton said
Attention is low-grade love

Surely all my low-grade love
Adds up to

Something
Somewhere
Somehow

I fantasised
About wading
Out of the
Ocean of info

Welcoming gravity
Casting away

My non-biodegradable surfboard

No longer needed
To carve 360
The algorithmic waves

Please Lord

If there is any mercy
Above those clouds of pollution

Please
Let that day come

I had a sudden admiration

For the strong
Silent types

Those figures cast of steel
Such heroic stoicism

Anthony Gormley's
Statues
Of himself