Poetry

Hessian

The balaclava itches

All has gone black.

The pixellated pictures

My eyes  scratch.

The News is tight around my throat

Burns, rubs, chokes.

Foreign cries of “cut/erase”

“This does not happen, not these days.”

Not for eyes forged and made

Loans, phones, Diet Cokes.

Editors press remote.

The screen goes black

My neck

Snap.

Samuel Newton