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POEM: For Most Men It Goes Without Saying

For Most Men It Goes Without Saying
(after Gil Scott Heron)

You will not see ours in HD,
3D pixelated Widescreen TV.
We will not be in any Xtra Large
Big Kahuna burger bundle
box set of Youtube views,
Facebook likes nor
Instagrammatical errors.
Ours will not be televised.

Ours will not be brought to you
in diagnosable format. It will be no Gif,
JPEG, Vine or HTML touch screen
experience. Ours will not show up
in any BAFTA nominated costume drama
starring Stephen Fry and Ruby Wax
We will not man up, man down
man turned around by
any 0300 24 hour helpline.

Ours will not go better with
rum and coke, smack, or toke.
We may get fat, lose weight,
man size, and an appetite
for a three course sex drive but
ours will not be televised.

There will be no pictures of ours
in tattooed magazines or on the cover
of any six pack of amitriptyline.
Ours is not the finest, smartest
taste the difference range.
We are proper essential mate.

We will not give Jeremy Kyle
a hard on with daytime DNA claims
in sick-strewn ATOS reports
brought on by aggressive
interview techniques,
and signed by some suit
labelled improved behaviour.

We will not be seen crying
on your carpet nor begging
on our knees for forgiveness
to dirty the broadsheets
or feed the gullets of
party political red tops.
Ours will not be televised.

It will not be exposed
taken out of context,
misquoted or overblown.
It will not take kindly to
pop-picking pundits, poll of pollsters,
or lay people on the ground.
And we will rain on any
homeopathic healers,
who try to karaoke away
our pain with a mic.

Ours will not be back
after the break.
There will be no repeats,
There will be no catch up
nor on demand. There will be
no highlights. No sir.
Because our depression is LIVE.

photo credit: Chicago Forever via photopin (license)

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