2016 02 – Prime Minister’s Question Time (poem)

PRIME MINISTER’S QUESTION TIME

 

He stood there repeating the word

         kill,

but not in those exact

         words,

for words they fly like

         birds

when you open the cage

         at will

rarely can you bring them

         back,

they’re gone to build nests and

         to breed,

producing young who will

         proceed

to fly over the city of the

         wrecked

counting bodies, naming

         names,

swooping into the Houses of

         Parliament

just as the PM

         hyperventilates

new reasons for those people

         in flames.

Encouraged, the ghosts

         follow in,

the sky is molten as the sun

         blinks,

but don’t look up

         or think,

as an Eton conscience dismisses

         sin,

and looking up you might become

         awake.

As a creation of an academic Madame

         Tussauds

you’ll soon melt as a waxy-faced

         fraud.

Didn’t you meant kill but with less shrill

         you fake.

 

Wilson John Haire.