the rules according to raab

No-one gives a toss
about social media
the whole truth-telling procedure
it’s totally overrated, mate
outdated
just throw shit out there, see what sticks
everyone uses dirty tricks

I don’t give two fucks
about the facts
so you may as well relax
it’s the new norm
conform
it’s not the taking part that counts
it’s the dollars in your bank accounts

Who gives a shit
if it’s real or not
if you lie a little or a lot
it’s an election
misdirection
when the truth comes out we’ll be long gone
safe in our clubs in London

I don’t give a damn
if you think I’m bent
the truth circumvent
fake news rules
fools
I’m a gilt-edged winner, not a quitter
I’ll say what the fuck I like on Twitter

Who the hell cares
if the public’s deceived
feels misled and aggrieved
facts are pliable
it’s undeniable
so shut the hell up, it’s hardly a disaster
save your screams for the morning after

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the difficulty thereof

Well. He certainly liked his walks.
I’m sorry if that makes him sound like a dog
but it’s true.
Anyway. What can I say?
He took a lot of pictures.
There. A positive.
Shared them on Twitter. He Tweeted.
Was a Twitterer.
Between you and me
I don’t see much difference
between that and those crazy people you see over the park
hunched over with a bag of crusts, covered in pigeons.
Still, it gave him a sense of purpose.
To be honest, and this doesn’t go any further,
I think it’s a crying shame.
All those plans he had, all those Big Ideas.
And in the end, what did it come down to?
A scattering of snaps on some virtual table.
Each one with a cutesy title, of course,
for ease of identification, I suppose,
like those tags you see
tied on toes in the mortuary.
I mean, honestly:
sticks & stones
the rag tree
coppice storm
guardian of the way
you take my point
(That last one’s me, btw, rofl).
I mean – look at this one:
a shovel, broken in the handle
dropped in the woods.
‘Like it died and hadn’t been able to bury itself’
That’s what he told me. I said Okay Right Hmm
But isn’t that just a teensy bit morbid?
He was like that, though.
A bit dry for some.
He couldn’t just close his eyes
and feel the sun on his face.
D’you know what I mean?
He had to root around in all that shadowy shit
Bring things down
to the flare of light in a horse’s eye
or the dance of a rag tied on the lowest branch of a tree.
Or, for heaven’s sake,
a broken shovel someone tossed.
I mean, honestly.
Where’s the joy? The simple common sense?
It just goes to show,
you can lead a horse to water
but you can’t make it stop banging on
about words, art, life
and the difficulty thereof

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the truth about the bird

I’m not sure about Twitter.

Sometimes I think it’s been a great creative spur, inspiring me to look at things in more detail, at mushrooms and trees, patterns of light, found poetry, birdsong after the rain, a ventilation duct that looks like a steampunk worm. I love the way it challenges me to come up with haiku poems, scraps of conversation I’d otherwise forget, short descriptions, serious notes, trashy nothings. I love the way it makes me feel connected to people doing the same sort of thing, all over the world.twitter logo

But some days the whole thing flips on its beak. Suddenly I’m using Fritter, not Twitter, and I panic that I’ve fallen under the spell of some giant and insatiable chick, incessantly demanding food, first thing in the morning, last thing at night, and I’m flying backwards and forwards looking for anything remotely digestible to drop into its craw. I worry that I’m actually morphing into this crazy blue chick myself – living on a sugary diet of likes and retweets, dashed when my follower count goes down, happy when it goes up, even though I have no idea who these followers or dropped followers are, and even though I suspect that many of them are living like me, in a nest of scraps somewhere, with a phone camera, snapping anything of interest.

Today I love it, though.

And, of course – hashtag irony – this post will feature on my feed.

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his last tweet

I have no doubt his familiar was a jackdaw
he was so acquisitive, divergent,
distractable, odd.
increasingly he was living only
where he could see everything
and everything could see him
over time he built a chaotic but glittering nest
borrowing from other nests
stealing, more than once,
it has to be said
only to make his nest more beautiful
less obviously refractive
he died – suddenly, tragically off-cam –
from a strange but Snopes-verified condition:
multimediamegaly
the funeral cortege, I’m proud to reveal,
attracted almost a hundred followers