The News

To the screen we look,
Consuming the fast food
Of news and media’s
Rumour fat fact.

We’re obese on it.
It’s thick in our blood,
Congealed arterial,
Congealed – congested.

If you asked us to change,
Try a different diet
– Thoughts healthy and positive –
We’d agree to affirmation

Then tiptoe in the secret night
To feast on 24 hour rolling junk.
We’d munch like we’re addicted
And smile the innocent lie

Each light day, remaining unchanged
As we had intended. Our need to live
In fear, the foodstuff from which our lives
Spread out in concentric rings.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Virus Of News

In our reality
Thoughts shape the space
Of our dream.

A news item,
A Facebook outrage,
A horror,
Flares like guilt in the brain
And an abdominal twist of pain.

These are the food of nightmares.

Are they facts?
Possibly,
Probably,
Perhaps not.

For all the circled world is but a myth
Of savoured and soured dreams,

Where truths
Are malleable

And thoughts are bent

And perception
Is first machined by bias,
Changed by the colour of memory.

Our facts
Are not the solid stones we think
But slippery fish

With faces in multitude.
Not facts at all
But tellings and stories,

Mixed fictions and truths,
Happenings and imaginings,
Wishes and fears both,

Reported as the proper news

But perhaps not news at all,

Just the incessant re-posting of a viral fantasy.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015