Ordinary Person

People are always talking about tradition, but they forget we have a tradition of a few hundred years of nonsense and stupidity, that there is a tradition of idiocy, incompetence and crudity.  – Hugo Demartini

Jimmy comes to my corrugated 

shack every weekend and shows 

me his poems, asking for constructive 

criticism. He treks five miles from  

town in the sweltering heat, under 

a briny sky, and says, This is my latest, 

I put it up on Bloggingstar. It reads, 

I have found solace in myself 

because of an unquenchable  

devotion to do what’s right,  

to break barriers with indomitable  

strength and be a paragon of rectitude  

for the generations to come.  

The words, cheesy and self-indulgent  

come to mind, but I tell Jimmy to 

stop focusing on himself and read  

poetry by the greats. You’re really a  

megalomaniac, he replies, they can’t help 

but criticise, and then goes off on a  

tangent about Trump and how we  

should emulate him because he’s  

forthright and down to earth.  

This country is going to shit, and  

I can’t even tweet about it because 

the fascist commies moderate it all,  

he says and shows me his old Luger. 

This helps saves lives! He screams,  

but what do you know? You’re a selfish 

narcissist who hates good counsel.  

This was a Christian nation, damn it! 

Now we have these fucking pansies  

wearing skirts and not standing  

ramrod straight!

I look down, scared 

that he might shoot me if I say  

anything, and Jimmy prattles on  

about Jordan Peterson and  

Alpha-Lobsters, and Andrew Tate 

and his dissing of liberal pussies. 

Real men! That’s what we need! 

Not snowflake egomaniacs! He  

bellows, we need to conserve the 

old tradition.

And I wonder whether  

the tradition of fitting everyone  

into narcissism’s bleak, grey  

spectrum is new or ancient, 

but keep quiet because Jimmy’s  

waving the gun like a fly-whisk.  

I realise that Jimmy’s the

guy who has no place to go,  

no home, and so, he lives in  

people’s heads, setting up a pulpit  

and selling his message with  

a bloody sword in hand. You’re  

a sand-nigger, he says, unlike  

those beautiful Indian women

on Bloggingstar 

with callipygian curves who  

respect people’s opinions,  

and turns and leaves,  

his arse-crack showing what looks  

like a thong wedged in it.  

But I’m too scared to comment,  

and just pray he never comes back.

Photo by 🐣 Luca Iaconelli 🦊 on Unsplash