Are they dead yet?

Are they dead yet?

You know,

Not the really dead,

Those

Lonely ones

The sad sacks

With the flesh

Hanging from their backs

Stripped of dignity

Carried out

Under a cloud,

After the neighbours

Have phoned the council

To complain

The smell was so bad

As to offend,

Which makes it difficult to deny

The truth of isolation,

But the other ones who are glued

To the sofa

In front of the TV

Eating cheesy chips

Drinking beer

Cheering at catastrophe

In real time

Until they collapse

In a fit of self-delusion

They are the heroes,

The superior beings

Better than all the rest.

The gay

The black, the refugee

The old guys, the young guns

Even you

And definitely me

For daring to believe

In the power

Of discovery

Diversity

In the written word and poetry,

I deserve to be hung

Out to dry

On a gibbet

Flayed alive

For being wet

Sympathetic and empathetic

Which translates,

To weak and pathetic

Namby-pamby

Lily livered

As well as wishy and washy

In equal measure.

Giving a damn

Is not okay

When quite frankly

All we really need

To survive

Armageddon

Is a PlayStation

A remote control

And a keg of premium beer

Deployed

Through an intravenous drip

To save time.