Stem cells
all on their own achieve
a rapture.
Hung from a feather,
a soft noose.
It’s never too late
to cut me down.
That horse is made of tin.
Wonder what’s inside?
Go ahead, open it.
You might be surprised.
Rife with
justifiable extrapolation
dare I digress
from common decency?
Shorthand
for money
is honey.
No, I’m not
an aficionado
of a feel-good constabulary.
Self-justification
indulges
in gun-carry, an example
of a deadly
tic-tack-toe.
Not quite what we expected—
an intervention
by a fin-de-siècle fop.
Parlour games
on parchment
feint to the left.
Dragged kicking & screaming
to stage-right. Stand up
& take a bow.
Even though we knew
it was faux we clapped
that perfectly vocalised hurt.
Enshrined
in an industrial-strength body
if only.
Everything
I need to know
is me.
What I want
is for you to think
that what I’ve said was what
I never said.
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