The satellite truck fitted with 27 monitors
drives the streets of these cities
capturing moments of rigmarole.
Reporters stand in front of cameras
and wait for a countdown
from the button pushers
inside some production booth
clockwatching like thieves
hoping for parole.
Anchors shuffle copied paper
relayed into the brightly lit studios
by windup tapered interns.
Smile into the proscenium windows
of the world, whip turn and smile
dramatically into the proscenium arches
of this world.
27 monitors inside a truck parked
on the highest ground
An old news hound leans back
and packs a bowl,
27 monitors arranged in columns and rows.
Beheadings in a foreign country of war,
lets interview the families.
Planes entering buildings not coming out,
lets interview the fallen,
the ones who looked up and then fell down.
Lets push a microphone in mouth slack
with lack of words or air to blow
into the lungs of the drowned of Katrina.
Lets stare into the harsh glare of exposed sun
until we burn off our hallowed patina.
The lore of de Lorde carries on,
afterwards of Buchenwald,
transfixed on the transparent walls
of the asylum, brought by cable tv
into our sweetest homes.
Lets kill Paula Maxa ten thousand times more,
laugh at hysterical panic and maximized gore,
if you can’t faint then you are immured
inside the caresses of the hypnodomme.
Sigh like a furnace,
sans eyes, taste, teeth, everything.
We’re lovers only on the surface
while secretly seethe underneath.
27 monitors always turned on
pray to the legacy of our lord de Lorde.
All our world’s a stage
dependent and demented
within the confines of the Grand Guignol.