Wednesday, 14 June 2017

Ten o'clock

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


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


you slip me

a slick sales-pitch:

a sound,

to be bitten,


swallowed or

spat out

on the ground.

you bring me faces

i don’t wish to see.

villains to demonise,


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


for now

removed in sandy shallows

this side of the screen.

you move me on

and tell me of the glitzy games


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



reminding me,

you were the evening news,

I watch you laid to rest.

1 comment:

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White trash-lovers, Freaks for all they’re worth, Anarchy in beady, brazen faces, Seizing stares, Standing ground...