and ‘good evening’ you say,
with your will to encapsulate
a world
in two simple words.
you drag me to your angle,
box up,
shrink wrap,
present me with
a moment.
then boil down
condense,
or sugar-coat
a movement.
replay and frame
the mise-en-scene
of a ticking clock.
do you believe
you own it,
that you can make it
stop?
you slip me
a slick sales-pitch:
a sound,
to be bitten,
chewed,
swallowed or
spat out
on the ground.
you bring me faces
i don’t wish to see.
villains to demonise,
devour,
victims to pour pity on for an hour,
then rationalise.
you loose your circling acid sharks
in neutral waters,
to echolocate,
smell blood,
sniff out,
go in for the kill,
expose, expound.
then comfort with the thought
of tragedy’s ebbing tide,
you leave me
safe
for now
removed in sandy shallows
this side of the screen.
you move me on
and tell me of the glitzy games
revisited
year on year
in cosmic colosseum circuses,
round the globe.
then forecast
rain or snow
as if you own the day,
and run the show.
willingly appalled, I bow
to sample simple snapshots of disgrace,
your gun held to my head,
your mirror to my face
to mould me to your point of view
to bring me down
right here
right now.
you are the evening news
you try your toxic best
and
finally,
reminding me,
you were the evening news,
you were the evening news,
I watch you laid to rest.