They tell their story and steal all the glory,
where whiplash longing crisscross with catastrophe
to form those fallacious tendencies o’er again.
The clenched switchblade sits in their hands, lumbering strands
of brittle hair clumped against their bulging foreheads
with eyes wide shut to all the importance of truth.
And who could stand the stench of predisposition
positioned as they baptise their sins, saints afresh.
The jukebox tells: “Oh, the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear”*.
And that statement ain’t lost on me.
The waxen glisten blinds we intended livestock.
When were we in this together? The jackknife lies
and takes more lives than their synthetic heartless skin.
Unsettled, we pay attention to their right hand,
as their deride grows, the left lacerates our throat.
While ol’ Bobby, in the distance, keeps on singing:
“I mean, I tell you that line forms way on the right,
now, that Macky’s back in town!”*
* Bobby Darin (1959) ‘Mack the knife’, That’s All, ATCO Records.