Motorsport looks more and more perverse as every year ticks over. I used to love the romance of it. The brightly coloured cars roaring, snarling and screaming around the circuit, scrabbling for grip. The pitlane would be full of glamour and sex. But no more, the cars got geeky and clinical. Ironically all sex is leaving the show as it all gets more perverse. Passionless monotony enters, finishing with a mechanical champagne ejaculation, after they have had their way with the world. Celebrating their sport of consumption in a world that needs to be nurtured and held with respect, after years of careless decadence.
There is a popular conundrum about a plane on a treadmill. If the treadmill matches the speed of the plane’s wheels, will the plane be able to move forward and take off?
The plane is not powered by the wheels, it is powered independently. So, the wheels will roll forwards, the treadmill will do opposite, and as the plane takes off as normal, the wheels will be travelling twice as fast.
Another train of thought goes, but what if the wheels are powering the crafts take off? Well then as they increase speed, the treadmill will increase, but in this theorisation the treadmill is not in control. The wheels will continue to accelerate immediately to infinity.
This second version is also a good metaphor for consumerism. A system that has no end but self destruction.
Bitten by a tiny bug, three puncture marks on my ankle. The ankle is swollen, and it itches. Why does it itch? It is natural to scratch it, virtually impossible to ignore it. Yet the scratching does not ease the itching, it riles the wounds and angers my skin, keep scratching and it bleeds. Continue and it scars. What point is an itch? Perhaps we are meant to dig away the poison, in a different time we would possibly pass if we did not eject the venom. Yet, I am sure it is not a lethal dose. Stop itching.
Indoctrinated to unquestioningly pledge allegiance to the flag every morning, It’s a powerful way to hypnotise the masses. To lobotomise the masses, lobotnosis if you will. Leading folks by the flag, to idiotic conclusions. Pledge allegiance to your own thoughts, your own heart.
It is not boring while I’m pouring
letters for sentence on the page
I will keep stirring and observing
till the poem comes of age.