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

In The Protectorate Of The White Adult

The soldier wears his face
Expressionless; his body
The unimpassioned tool
Of a government, his self
Hidden deep, but watching
Immobile, as the rolling news
Archives refugees in their movement.

White faces wear white masks
While the multitude are naked.
If you could see the lips speak
Behind the West’s veil,
You’d hear these words:
We don’t want your disease

Or your brown, unwashed skin
Unless sanitised in servitude:
A cocktail offered by a waiter
On a faraway beach –
Given to the money flushed king,
Sweating in the midday heat.

Don’t you know:
Migration is a one way valve
And impoverishment a birthright.
Remain in your grubby seat
For you are the brown child
In the white adult’s protectorate.

© 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.

Migrant Crisis

For fifty years
The shining west
Broadcast the abundant dream
In films and on TV sets,
Sold their gloss of golden
Paving and streets opportune,
Livelihoods so plentifully clean:
Advertising the job lot
To the chink in the human heart
Where wishing spills out
From wanting’s germinated seed.

And now all the world desires
A piece of the unreal dream
And comes, unstoppable,
In tide of need’s imbalance.

© 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?
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