Dry as a kite, barren against the wind.
Musical chairs except there’s no odd one out: the boxes keep rotating,
Mike to a different MC.
Body sampled in beats skipping distortion in her account, so the super intendant, when he does take the stage,
It erupts with applause roaring 40 degree blasts of sweat, and 20
Journalists tickling his nose with their hottest fingers slurring cleavage.
Twist knife, clunk, glitch.
“But I wouldn’t have killed her if she didn’t fight back”
“And I wouldn’t have killed her if she didn’t fight back”
Stir squalls in squares saluting foundations saluting legislatures saluting British penal codes
saluting the old world saluting squares saluting foundations.
“Wake up, wake up”
“That’s it, my fifteen minutes are up”
Photograph: Raisul Nayon