blame is a comfort blanket thrown
we are all stained
Somewhere people aren’t really famous at all
and death is the miracle cure for fat people.
an internal light, this morning
I listen hard enough and I
swear I can rattle away in silence.
There is a war there,
served with sound bites, politics, news camera filming
capturing the dappled light of today
A large spot light, a
glimmer of a razor edge
somewhere, in a different latitude you just make out a director
“I am becoming my father,
hair, cheeks and jowl.”
A sign of terror,
below the cathode rays spit out colours,
the aroma of perfume and of opal eyes.
Coca-Cola, Mickey Mouse, white bread God.