| promise your secrecy into the microphone
|
| into the megaphone, into the cell
|
| questioning decency under the microscope
|
| over and over then over and out
|
| organise my life over the telephone
|
| over my dead body, over my head
|
| tread a fine line between you and your memories
|
| between you and me things are best left unsaid
|
| the honouring of violence
|
| is a security number
|
| always so quiet it slips under your guard
|
| pushes your dead body, under the microscope
|
| over and over it’s over say over and out
|
| another incident, another accident
|
| dangerous emptiness, people in shock
|
| you pelt them with rocks
|
| and the old innuendo
|
| «no that was no mishap
|
| that brake line was cut»
|
| lie on the pavement, wait for an ambulance
|
| say to yourself nothing is what it seems
|
| never meaning to say you never say what you mean
|
| you get caught by the sirens on your t.v. |
| screen
|
| the honouring of violence
|
| is a security number
|
| always so quiet it slips under your guard
|
| pushes your dead body, under the microscope
|
| over and over and over
|
| then over and out
|
| over and out out
|
| over and out out
|
| over and out |