Super Nova

A famous Artist
Takes his life.

He leaves a short note
For his estranged wife

He points a knife
Towards his chest,
Sighing, he pierces
His pampered poets flesh.

His body is found
Several days later,
Propped up against
A broken bathroom radiator.

Several of the broadsheets
Will run a feature,
The TLS will run a cover,
He will be added to the Syllabus
For bored teenagers
To pretend to discover
His meanings
And dissect his rhyme schemes

For the most part,
He is forgotten
To be resurrected, rarely,
As a Sunday supplement
In The Guardian

A Reality TV Star
Catches something terminal,
Leaving her doctors
She calls Max Clifford
To get her a Chat Show deal.

So to Richard and Judy
She will tell of the lumps
She found under her towel,
To Paul, she talks about the
Obstruction in her bowl,
On Phil and Fern
She will learn how to
Flambé correctly.

Hello, Chat and OK
Will let her have her say
And take photos of the Chemo,

Her condition will
Consume every edition
Of all the Tabloid Magazines
And when she weds
They will all exclaim
How her bald head
Compliments her dress.

When she croaks,
It’ll be all over the news and
Taxi driving blokes,
Will pause and say:
“She meant the world
To the missus and me,
She was the fucking
Queen of Bromley”

Tribute editions
Will fly from the shelves
As the population
Become beside them selves
In grief that is intense.
And brief.

Her diary will sell,
He house will as well,
Her husband will
Give seven exclusive
Interviews a week
Then go back to Jail.

But another star will come,
And it will all be redone.
Another bleached blonde
Girl will sell the world and
It will all be redone
And redone, and redone.

And the Artist is dead.

And the Star is dead.

And I am bored of it all.