Saturday, 1 March 2014

The Reality TV Producers With No Name (Part 160)

..Abysms relinquish..

Colder than all the landlords of Neptune,
The reality TV producers with no name,
Floss their teeth with the wings of moths,
Then mouthwash with moss on drains.
Their Catherine Wheeling, fan-fire-fingers of slime,
Quickens the consensus-pulse,
Thus a new ill wind blows, floats the drones, repulsed;
Engulfs the lambs on the sands consigned,
(The difficult territories of managed decline),
So off-line, lost in forgotten time,
And, bombs, bombs away..

Imagine a snow-capped sheer Watford Gap Himalayan mountain range;
Imagine now an even more mythic iced, shellac Beyond:
An unforgiving desaturated tundra -
The uttermost bounds;
The spilling edges of England's media Grimm fairytale Earth:
Yetis, dragon penguins, polar ferrets, mushy pea caves;
The achromatic plains where unfettered swirling glottal accents echoing, reign.
To the reality TV producers' mind's eye, that's the north..

Here, they fancy, big-boned pagan shaman of the deep-fried chocolate pizza twirl and roam and,
Fornicate delirious sporting sacrificed badger skin curry condoms
'neath obscure race-memory Scandinavian avian gorging/purging gods..

Glaring mean, staring baleful,
Mean and beady-eyed, our Soho Illuminati,
Sway sickened seeming such primordial alien moonscape.
For its natives must appear to them like exotic, dangerous, grotesque, gargoyle apparitions,
Just gagging to be dunked and strung up,
Stripped away of their corpulent, malingering Cro-Magnon flesh,
Ready meals to swing to deliquesce from W1's studio foyers' plastic eves and grottoes,
Or to rot right here wherever slain:
Carrion for the ubiquitous circling pigeon vultures,
Squawking high above their decloaking cloud nine drones,
Engaging these perversely guacamole-free heathen dominions,
And canyons.

Too late now..

So, they shall live yet perish, here, there and there,
Shocked, stunned, dying undead;
Fresh victims of the camera-to-face combat-troops' dreadful stealth tech typology,
Contrived by deepest London media twattery,
Convicted locally,
Executed globally.

And colder still than no-win no-fee lawyers of Saturn,
These reality TV producers with no name,
Guerrilla their contempt and metropolitan hate,
Armed only with ragged, radioactive release forms,
And tabloids' heavyweight hate-myth sciamachy,
A flask of cocaine, courtesy of
the twenty-six thousand Mexicans slain and scalped annually,
And a jar of Manuka honey.
Sherpas caddie one, or perhaps two, skinny Kevlar ties, Fit For Purpose.
Thus, the dark arts ninja plume mirrors of smoke,
Evoke their magic hex;
Their affected empathic souls watched best on Teletext.

And so the reality TV producers with no name make haste,
To film their latest TV atrocity.
The reality TV producers with no name,
Like the NSA mini-me namesake, GCHQ,
They'll soon know so much more than just your name..

The reality TV producers with no name,
They post-rationalise, re-edit, crowbar nuance to cover their back:
The heart-warming story of a Romanian lap dancer,
She has a nice rack.
And because she holds a PhD,
The producers aftercare sought her some shelves to stack,
So why doesn't anyone mention that?
They mean, for balance..

Sure enough, the keyboard commandos brain bang simpatico
the hell-in-a-hand-basket cannibals,
Chip-in the righteous indignation spit-roast quill-killer merry-making.
All the media thuggery - the major entitlement beneficiaries,
Point to those apparently holding the trademarked hard-working families to ransom,
Clearly and irrefutably responsible
for every bad thing that happens.
So there's our impartial balance.

And if you think all this be bad,
Then you, my friend, are politically correct gone mad,
Yes, because Britain is entitled to feel had by
those mysterious warriors,
Otherwise known by our interweb's inbred as
The Brigades - The Politically Correct Brigades.
So, let it be written:
These twelve-foot tall lentil-munching killers?
They must have sixteen arms,
And curse in Sanskrit,
And shoot darts of molten ectoplasm from their pineal gland,
And abduct extraterrestrials,
And suck their brains out with straws:
It's their way of winding down for the weekend.
The Politically Correct Brigades,
Very tough bastards, aren't they?

Warm and soft and tender,
The reality TV producers with no name,
Chew our eyeballs burning bully pulpit zeitgeist,
Careful to lock-step their shedding stock-in-trade light.

All they do is point the camera, right?
Coincidentally, it's only reality TV producers who vanish

once they demonise and evanesce, unleash the trolls into the light,
So let's chant a mantra:
No-one forces them to be in the limelight..

And that makes everything all right.
And why not add a dash of the ultimate lie:
That the camera never lies..