I’m shouting at the television,
sound turned down, the gag growing hard
in my mouth. The words
freeze on the screen, the sub-titles
jostling for space. A is bombing
B who is bombing C:
altogether something of a racket,
I see what you mean, can’t
hear it at all. Yes I will give way,
I would like to make progress,
my friend is honourable. The precision
of your speech: it hits
all the right targets, misses the innocents,
who can’t applaud
for fear of setting the others
off. Although I regret it,
I shall be voting for – and now
my mouth’s sick rictus
breaks into action. Of course,
just what they least expect,
the drone of drones, I give way
to the member for Borstal North:
nod, nod, nod off. The spores
float out of the doors
to infect another generation:
the dark dense eyes
hardly blink. There is shooting.
Three minutes each, that’s
all you’re allowed now.
That is a life, by any standards.
All day the talking. All over
bar the shouting
at the television.