A Mountain From a Pile

How far do the ripples spread, when eventually we die Probably stay in the locality, level off, no major outcry But let’s say we’re famous, suffering unexplained death The ripples keep expanding, growing further in breadth See the grotesque nature of spin, is to overplay a scene Garnishing public outrage, lurid pictures fill our screens Playing to an audience, ratings become the holy grail Stories without embellishments, grow tiresomely stale These ripples are an illusion, imagination going berserk Carried along by a corrupt deception, truth been shirked Evidence the one requirement, for establishing all facts I extrapolate backwards, what the hell there’s no splash Lines converge into partial truths, confused to a degree Must be taken with a pinch of salt, querying what I see Even this soup we enjoy, is manipulated and massaged Most of the poems are quite good, others form a mirage Taken out of context a rectangle, can become a square Brought into focus, desolate pictures, not quite so bare What’s basically a clean stab, or slash across the wrist When poets stick in the knife, some give it a good twist Using poetry for a hidden agenda, political or otherwise Tantamount to mind-numbing crap, seen in the tabloids If your going to post propaganda, to further some game Write it on toilet paper, wipe off, that’s all you’ve gained By David Kavanagh