I am an altered fact,

so are you,

we only exist in a state of comfortable

despair because the very rich,

the very stupid

and the unfathomably popular

allow us to be there to be struck off,

one by one, in a crowd, sniper guns

pounding coins

whilst they hoard pounds,

guarding the brain cells that give them power

but dementia like poise and dying cells

they release the ones that guide

compassion, hope and love

and they somehow infect us with promises

of be like us, love us, the power games

of the opulent, uncharismatic and undesirable.

I am an altered fact because I don’t play the game,

you are an altered fact because

you are no use to their popularity,

they are all altered facts,

those that breathe

in a different air, because

they can only pick up the pennies

from the shotguns and close up Colt 45s.

 

Ian D. Hall 2017