Green is the new black – at least according
to the entry I’ve just come across in my CALD.
That upset me. Put me in a bl– no, better
make that a green mood. We have to keep up
with the Joneses: who wouldn’t want to be
with it? Now I shall have to change my style.
Just when I thought I’d found my true colours,
out of the pink I’m asked to start from scratch,
green-sky a whole new set of ideas, as it were.
My language processing unit’s been put on
fuchsia alert; I’m well yellowed off, lavender
with rage, feel like shouting purple murder…
To earn Greenie points with the fashion set
I’ll have to leave my Beacon Hill whitestone
and relocate to the black belt, maybe even
the heart of the blue-light district. I’ll sell
my orange-chip company, find myself
a red-collar job, turn into a raving pinkneck.
But don’t accuse me of terracotta-nosing
the dictionary dictators! Soon even the last
white sheep will have to fly the black flag;
there’ll be no end of government blue papers
regulating everything; all sorts of indigo tape;
maroon-carpet treatment for lucky aliens who
struck silver in the mauve card lottery and
swarm over here hoping the grass is more
lemonchiffon X11 this side of the Big Grey.
Supporters of the Washington Puceskins
will send their kids to Goldbrick universities;
the radio will warn us of traffic taupespots,
while Turquoise Van Man will forever park
on those double purple lines; down under
hapless surfers will be eaten by Great Blacks;
cream supremacists and beige trash will elect
a Great Magenta Hope to the Ultra Pink House
But wait for it: on the ultimate black-letter day
in the calendar of this once-blue planet, the sun
– turning into a Red (yes, red) Giant – will see us
out in a multispectral, blinding blaze of glory
that shall reveal all things in their true colours:
a crimson ball of fire; searing white heat –
blackout
whypoetry 