Saturday, 15 January 2011

A Retreat In Upstate New York

And I ask. What is the cure for coping?

Not slumber, deep eight, nine hours interrupted
Just naps, because a starving fatigued grey
Brain stops, there's no back up. No reservation.

Distracted concentration ash, lack of able,
Tasks become trials - the staircase,
Walls (four), safety.

Don't touch me
Handle with care

The front door becomes an end
A step of toward hell
Full of poorly paid paparazzi
With loose morals and a TARGET.

Baby, I'm sorry

These spies take unlicensed pictures
And they're put up for auction
And bidded for by the baddest
Most desperate lost magazine

They pay to show subscribers
Scenes of family privacy
In a park, during dinner, in the car,
Post funeral.

They are photo perverts
Capturing a daughter who's daddy has been donated
To film history,
A mother of protection for her child who can't remember
Papa's aftershave, favourite Ice Cream or
Bedtime tale.

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