Not a new piece, but some comments made in Silliness by @sosbanfach about a certain celebrity wankstain inspired me to post it.
I watched you die, you know?
The day the Mirror cracked
and all your perverse reflections came screaming out
of its crazing type-set surface,
dripping fake tears and real blood
all over the headlines,
I watched them bury you
– bury you and all your lies and hypocrisy,
your total lack
of scruples or talent –
bury you deep enough,
I swore you were gone for good.
The by-lines you filed from Limbo
I could just about stomach.
The Evening Standard seemed
as suitable a purgatory
as any that I could come up with.
But I guess there’s no such thing as ‘deep enough’
for certain types of parasite.
After all,
nothing is beneath you.
No such thing either as ‘gone for good’;
vermin are seldom
threatened by extinction.
This is not a repeat.
This is live TV,
and that looks to be
a very expensive suit you’re wearing.
You look well,
better, certainly,
than you deserve to.
Under studio make-up,
no one would ever guess
that you’d already died the death
of a thousand paper cuts,
leaving bodyparts ignobly strewn
the length and breadth of Fleet Street.
Resurrected,
bigger and smugger than ever,
your unholy reincarnation
gloats and guffaws for rolling cameras,
some toxic, transatlantic messiah,
dispensing this cut-rate opiate to the masses.
You’re a household name,
and they love you.
They really do.
They’ve forgotten all about
your mercenary duplicity.
They’ve forgiven you for
your hack mediocrity.
They don’t notice that you
haven’t changed a bit,
or they don’t care.
All your sins have been absolved
through audience ADD.
And it seems that you’re a believer now,
not that anything you do can surprise me.
You’d take anyone’s name in vain
for a bigger market share,
and you’re selling yourself
to America’s Religious Right,
who want their whores praising Jesus
while they’re on their knees.
Bad faith and snake oil:
it’s all you’ve ever had to offer,
but damn if the idiots aren’t buying.
One born every minute,
and my,
how those pockets are bulging.
Your sordid little star is on the rise again.
You’re Britain’s biggest export.
You’re glorious,
you’re golden,
you’re twenty-four carat Teflon.
You’re the unlanceable boil
on the fat, junk-fed arse
of global media.
Now get the hell off of my TV set.
I watched you die, you fuck.
For Piers Morgan.
