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

Royal Correspondent

In his finest Queen’s English,
P’s and Q’s in mind,
He eloquently states
And stiffly elaborates,
Using long words
And upright and proper sentences,
Annotating with slow voice
And seriousness,
The somber events
And flag waving celebrants,
Conscripting his yesteryear
And best BBC
To announce
With banner and bow,
Pomp and formality,
The stereotype
Crowning in the matter
Of his Englishness.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

For The Racists

Worse than hatred;
The blanking hand
Demises those blanked

And withheld acknowledgment
Disappears the subject of a self
As if it were a ghost
Of no magnitude or apparentcy.

A crime to be blanked
And yet also,
Crime in the one who blanks,
For the racist cauterises his own
Wholesome self in the violence
Of his denying

And lies as injured as his victim
In the victimhood of his division:
No longer seeing all the beautiful
Faces who are the whole of him.
Half his heart he disowns and cuts
From his being, settling in to the
Fraction of the self remaining,
So colourless and drained,
And denied of life’s real meaning

In the face of otherness rejected.

© 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