Crass had a big impact and influence on me, as they did for many folk of an age…
Actually, they continue to have an effect on many…
They have, to some extent, had an influence on this poem.
Punk is dead (after Crass)
Yes that’s right punk is dead,
it’s just another cheap product for the consumers’ head,
We are a long way from winters of discontent
and silver lined jubilee summers.
Rebellion has become a bargain-basement
status update.
Now direct action is unfriending someone
when they are a dick, and is there any real danger
of any real DIY online thought.
Anti-establishment is not wearing an OBEY
sweatshirt or a backward baseball cap.
We are in danger of our cloned youth
becoming patented, coming from a copyrighted helix,
making them all products. Some inferior, others high end.
Will they be consumed by those around them, appreciated.
Where will their consumer heads be at.
Will they be alive to ideology or numb
to dogma.
Will they consume alternative words, ideas or feelings.
Or will they simply make do
with a shit supply of crass one-line on-line posts.
Will they subscribe to punk economics,
as we enter a new age, the alternative spring.
Will they have any source or will they just demand.
Already they consume the internet, are consumers
of social and anti-social media, the cheapest of products.
Where they hope to fit in, find a virtual gang, a safe haven.
Find cheap people hiding in the shallows,
where they could be made to feel cheap, for some at a high cost.
Where they can be short changed and robbed
of any chance of ever enjoying any (sub)culture.
bubblegum rock on plastic transistors,
school boy sedition backed by big-time promoters.
Will they be capable of spitting out
the bad taste that should be left in their mouths,
by the platforms administered by the corporate star-spangled banner.
Or will they chew on and swallow the amplified
processed propaganda shit of likes and clicks.
And devour without question the sanitised fake news
sold by big money politico sponsors.
Do you think that plastic bangles will ever
clatter on grown up revolutionary keyboards,
or will Botox policies always be airbrushed on to their realities.
Well I’m tired of staring through shit-stained glass
tired of staring up a superstar’s arse,
I’ve got an arse and crap and a name,
I’m just waiting for my fifteen minutes fame.
Tablets stream reality, everything appears
gratifyingly instant within 4G reach.
The excrement view of a crap smart led future
has been Photoshopped to show white smiles and micro hips.
Time is spent sat watching celebrity sleaze, all nip and tuck,
and devoid of charm and cellulite.
Online searches look for opportunity, for wealth without effort,
the chance to appear on an abundance of auditions,
or even inviting big brother to watch you,
accepting intrusion as an invitation to show off,
while vying for online votes. Oh Well…
Imagine the liberation if punk was not dead.
PUNK IS DEAD.
PUNK IS DEAD.
PUNK IS DEAD.
PUNK IS DEAD.
