Bury it on the back page,
behind the ads for shitty cars
and after the wedding announcements
journalistic hucksterism to glorify monsters
a carefully cultivated breeding program
to churn out disaster
as if hate and glory and depravity were some endangered species
we dress the set like a porno,
getting the blue and red light flickering off congealed pools
tight close ups of wet sloppy faces
and fluttering hands
always prepared for that money shot
a broken body is good
but a dozen even better
horror reduced to token plotlines
pale shaky excuses for the next set of images
raw and real,
amateurs and professionals get their turn
water cooler pundits salivating for a shot of skin
another savaging,
public, prolonged and pointless
but air time sells like hot cakes when the bodies pile up
and we wring our hands
wipe the sweat from brows
and when the last overwrought tone thunders through studio speakers
and we are done, collapsed, spent, exhausted
We’ll shake empty heads,
suddenly nervous as a maiden
and wonder how this could have happened again

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