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MEANS OF COMMUNICATION

But we fear.
But we are dossiers
or the decisions made by others.

Or allow terrorists the safe spaces to talk to each other?

In the crypt with his eyes shut, tight,
and darkness.
But listening.

Spies spy, monitors monitor.
All seeing eye and I cannot see until I have forced all eyes open and mouths shut.

Minimizing the required wires.
Don’t commit to anything that you’d feel uncomfortable having your grandmother read.

Banning communication channels.

She was swimming the Channel in her night dress,
in phosphorescent waters,
a selfie.

Allowing you to ninja your way through Gmail
or every doubt and suspicion
or restriction.

Select the cities you want to build and build them.
Even the most primitive animals react to odours given off by their own.

If the unseen becomes seen what can exist beneath?
Beneath the line,
in a liberal democracy.

Say goodbye, I’ll see you on the other side.

In the wake of atrocities
there is no privacy and I am naked again,
flailing at random.

Abdicate you swine.

In Eton eating hope.

Every missed payment, every failed section,
every transaction, every inaction,
every submission, every ascension.
I’ll be reading you.

Nothing, no technology.
Just strings cut and unblemished hands holding scissors.

Wyrd bið ful aræd.

But I am safe in the supermarket.
But I am safe to enact privilege
like the privilege of satire.

I see.

That racy photo of you in the kitchen.
That effort to kill
or plan of destruction.
That note of disdain.

But I am safe on the train
not hiding in a toilet from bullets.

But we fear, we always do.
Or become blind.
Dossiers of self-destruction
or the mirage of choice.

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About michaeleganpoetry

Liverpool based poet and editor. I have had four pamphlets of poetry published, most recently After Stikklestad (Knives, Forks and Spoons Press, 2010). Penned in the Margins published my first collection, Steak & Stations, in 2010.

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