Struggling to find the end of a roll of Sellotape

despite his best intentions for this not to happen again

he’s all fingers and thumbs just as he is when trying

to open clear polythene bags in a supermarket

the energy expended on the need to trim his finger and toenails

the time taken to get around to doing it

and feeling good when it is done

maybe life would be better in a kind of standby mode

only waking up when an act is about to take place

he deplores TV programmes like Britain’s Got Talent

the exaggerated melodrama of slightly delaying the announcement

of which hopefuls have been voted in or out of this week’s show

that pantomime pause a menopause by the men of pause

he thinks it could be replaced by something like

Britain’s Got Tories

Britain’s Got Troubles

or Britain’s Got Right Wing Terrorists

these would be much more sincere and illuminating

especially if the same selection method is used

television as the Tower of Babel that moved like a demented crab

into a box then a flat screen and into our gibberish conversations

he’d like to have been a highly-decorated warrior relaxing

in a highly-decorated lounge but this was not to be and is not

instead he obsesses about militaria though he is ashamed

of how his Government uses its armed forces to kill civilians

in his name funded by revenue he was obliged to hand over

it’s almost a point of honour that he is or at least pretends

to be strong enough to offer to help friends to carry heavy items

also denies that he is feeling the cold despite the fact that it is cold

though this is getting harder as age planes away the resistance from his bones

and he appears even more ridiculous when inappropriately lightly attired

he tries not to get too hung up about about demarcation

though he has a door a gate a fence a scripture of passwords

and a clear understanding of where his personal space ends

he admits he falls foul of the Trades Description Act

existing on a small island in the middle of a tarn

of sodium hypochlorite like they did in the legends

afraid to venture out because of the risk of corrosion of his disambulation

the box sets abound

the anniversary re-release of albums

the anniversary re-release of an anniversary re-release

so touching the need to commemorate

to remember to empty pockets at regular points

the demise of former versions of the calendar

too much material collected and not offered in sacrifice

with more on the way

the fads the short-lived allegiances

squeezed into under places

a vacuum-packed heir with not enough memory

for too many memories

too much of him even

he forgets his PIN forgets his sin forgets the hymns forgets he’s him

he can breathe he can walk he can talk when he wishes

he can sleep he can wake he can see he can hear

he can hope he can know that flight has thus eluded him

so all bets are off

he reserves a special enmity for the super rich and is motivated

not to urinate on them when they inevitably combust and their reign is over

though hypocrisy will never expire there’s enough of it to go around

and we will squabble squawk and skirmish over their loot