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.
Labour Affairs Magazine 