Food Bank Photo-op

The murderer is opening the funeral

Of his own victims

Look at the warmth in his smile

Into the kindness behind his eyes

The flash of his suit

Did the photographer ask him to say


Or Tins

Or Super-noodles?

Or non-perishables?

Would that be too close to the bone?

What colour was the ribbon?

Did people clap at it’s cutting?

Did the murderer


A ghostly pat

On his back

As he went inside to see

The seeds

Of his destruction?

What was his soul telling him

As he stood next to the elderly volunteers?

Does he have one?

Did he look them in the face?

Was his face looked into by


Did the air bend?

Did the shelves swoon and stretch?

Did the grotesque spread

It’s crooked black wings

In between the flashes?

Was this witnessed?

His maggot teeth?

His wriggling claws?

His flaming tonsils?

The latent reek of mould descending?

Did the elderly women miss it?

Did the photographer capture the moment?

Would he spill the beans?

Did the slime seats of Westminster

Appear behind the minister

In negative apparition?

The vile brethren mass around him


Cooking with glee?

Rocking back and forth in ecstacy

At what they had done

And what they were doing

And could do?

And did the politician shake the hands

Of these poor people

As soon as the photographer had lifted his finger off the button?

Had he left as soon as he had come

In a car with blacked out windows

And disappeared

Into his night

To do what it is

He does?


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