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
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
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
Into his night
To do what it is