On the Tin

You create a lie masked in shouted narrative with straight fingers away from your hands, a body—
all the bodies involved—labelled as names
premised on the left while you move up
rightly, yet you feel empty or sick
in silence, you think; though it screams too
from that body you covered so well in matching in-rage, a page
that couldn’t be helped: it had a number; do you look to the last? You don’t;

you go to the coast. The money you saved for this!
The narcissism left behind. The same show here though you aren’t sure
yet, as you have time to repeat the picture and it’s like a missionary
all over again, as it is, all over again: you see
the sea; you leave, back to that childhood with your hands up: I understand! You get punched;
who’d have thought it. There’s a camera crew following you the whole time
behind your spectacles? It may only sound good.