Skin leans into the old-time radio mike,

light on the make-up, head gleaming

in the ad hoc lighting arrangement.

A cozily homegrown look. Sound good

but not too sleek. Snarl more of Elvis

or Alexander than serial arsonist,

pub nutter, or Jesus freak. His voice

creamy and gentle not ranting , rasping.

The better to deliver the venom

he is purveying. Poison and hate

are common currency and sense these days.

He reassures. Go for your rights. Give vent.

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We guarantee you will have no regrets.

Regrette rien, as French songstresses sing.

Here’s one to listen to awhile,

to lull you all off back down memory lane.

Except that memory lane is now a mugger’s

alley full of discarded needles and cans.

Spilt seed. Piss and shed blood. He talks

over the intro to the song.

Some old folk nod. That lovely boy next door

with drainpipe trousers and a close-cropped

head of hair. His dad is proud of him

and his mum is loved almost as much

as he’s enamored of his country’s flag.

Salutes. Peas in the pod go pop. Listen

and weep.

Photo by Daniel Robert Dinu on Unsplash