Airborne Toxic Event
are playing on the radio.
No, I had not heard of them, either,
but I had heard them before.
It is the same cloying bed
of minor chords,
a high pitched voice,
and lyrics saying things will be fine.
I find no comfort in those songs.
Four chords, fifteen minutes with a rhyming dictionary,
Bob’s your Uncle, Fanny’s your Aunt,
and to show their university education,
they mention something about Emmanuel Kant.
There is a local poet on the stage.
I had not heard him before,
but everyone tells me he is good,
and he is good until you remember
that it is all Smoke and Mirrors.
He mixes something from Seamus
with something he nicked from Ted.
Emily and Allen are in there somewhere as well,
and I find no comfort in these words.
The words are airborne.
They are all aural pollen,
Good for the Bees and the flowers,
But the Bees can sting,
And the pollen gives some people
I want food for thought,
not crumbs of comfort,
clichés of the day,
and a side order of