Hands, face, space
Write your own punchline
He's sorry, so that's
okay the matter's closed
so that's that then
ejaculation as Parliamentary privilege
if you watch closely
he's slipping her fifties with the tongue
the blurry image
of a clammy grapple
wresting the millions
and funnelling them
down, out, away
offshore, the lubricated
pipes of finance the KY of
money greasing the way for
Matt Hancock, Hatt Mancock
That Cockman, Mock Anthat
You know, that cunt
the one who set
the police on professors
the one who loaded
the cash on his mates
sometimes you need
to be oblique in poems, but sometimes
it's better just to say, you know
the one who killed all those people
then lied about it
and I don't care about
his pallid gasping
his spasmodic clutches
and heavy breathing
his torch for his old
Uni friend, that's a
pathetic story, been
done a million times
but the dead, I care about them
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