Hostage-takers hang out on the avenue
Watching for that tell-tale spark
Between who you are and how they see you
They will capture your essence, Photoshop your scars
Place you in light filled room
Open for display in a celebrity-shaped vase
While encased in a block of solid metal alloy
The source of all your words
Takes comfort from the illusionary ploy
Executed by agents bereft of worthwhile portfolio
But versed in the black arts
Of extracting the meaning from all that you know
And all that you see on this lost horizon
Is the jagged coast of yesterday
Where pirates’ coves of dark surmising
Fly ripped black flags of skull and bones
Call to ships of memory
In voices dredged from erogenous zones
Places where the tide line glows plankton rich
In sentences fashioned from soap
While competitors legs upturned kick from the spirit ditch
No license required to catch these crustaceans
Not for the net-work-king
These trains don’t stop at low-rent stations
So pay the ransom, meet them in the alleyway
Watched by ignored CCTV
And don’t pretend you have a thing to say
Your voice transcended by cash machines
Isn’t nearly strong enough
To break through the patina of plastic dreams
August 2009
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