Photographer Barbora Biňovcovà
You sold me out, listening to thugs and bigots
I was the best thing since Findlay, only I ended up like Gaddafi with a knife in my back landing face down
What did I ever do to you?
I would have met, if it weren’t for the stench of deceit that smirks behind your false humour attempting to cast a shadow over my outlook
Gas lights your way ahead; a shimmer of truth in everything you say minus the facts, calculating my goodness to open up doors
You had it all Mr Black, and I gave it willingly till I saw past the facade – my asking questions was not the tell that gave you away
It was your penchant for believing I was like you, but I’m not
I am nothing like you!
I thought I saw a flicker of sadness on your face when I walked by, but I felt no penny’s fall
I blacked out your face in my periphery that protects an empty hole where you once lived, disconnected from everything about you
Just be thankful you couldn’t see the blue eyes that hide behind a white fluffy cloud, instead of staring
The future is up in the air
Let’s see if your hand/eye coordination is as good as you once thought, although my cards don’t rely on slight and my deck is not for sale
Are you happy now? You almost have what you want, but the yoke is still around your neck (mother)
I am where I’m meant to be, alone kicking up a storm in my grandmothers teacup, with my mouth wide open
Sold! To the highest bidder
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Poetry Out West 