Stop
freeze
smile for the camera,
no need to feel bothered or smothered
by the eyes of the street.
Thumbs-up
say cheese,
big brother closed-circuit television
voyeur injection needle
plugged into a forearm vein of peeping junkie
uncle Tom -
with his line to the pig pen on speed dial,
cables running straight to the animal farm barn
where the sweaty blue men
wait for a thumbs-down marching call,
hand on the receiver
finger on the trigger
ready for riot gear smiles and drive-by friendly fire.

Online newspapers dangle poison laced
clickbait grapes:
'read all about it'
and 'you won't believe your eyes' -
spreading wildfire lies
while the tank-top mullet army
shoot fireworks and shotguns
at headless chicken bonfires,
watching as the parted red sea
fills with hues of untrue blues,
clutching at straws
on the podium of tell-tale tug of war,
the rope gropes Jack's throat -
tighter and tighter.

Blood paints the chessboard soil
in a Jackson Pollock splatter
where the pendulum tilts
in favour of the oil ocean,
lying beneath teenage marching feet,
crude sticky bubbling tar teeth
hungry for Jack's poor pawn bones
and hollow-cheek meat.

Hangman crossword newspaper scraps
folded for shelter under bridges at crossroads
hiding from helter skelter schizophrenic weather -
crossfire hurricanes and rolling hills of flames,
raining on the parade of Jack's hard earned,
wage-paid,
rental plywood trailer cave -
homelessness
hammers the last nail of his coffin
floating in ashes to the scrapyard grave.

Plump pink men fly on jumbo jets
in jumbo suits,
waving hysterically
while squeezing tightly into frame on the live-stream screen,
screaming walking stick delirium
and reading scripted cuckoo facts
coming straight at you in your living room
say hello to the future:
this is teletubbie television.