Bring your clothes, they said. Your new suits
and make-up which will make them see.
You know, the ones; the ones who "matter" the
only ones who see and say like Simon.
They are robots but they don't know it. We
do but we won't say it...If we do we die and
melt with the steel; the broken ones who
no one sees; no one cares. But because
we were raised by wolves
we pretend we don't care.
So. we bring our shiny suits and smiles;
our perfect mates with no guile. We will
smile in your country clubs and your marriages.
You know we are there and you like our tricks; it
makes for fodder on Etv, but we won't be there
with OUR families in suits or you will openly dump us
near the country fence. Whether tied or berated,
crucified on a ragged fence, you will still say, "Well
he shouldn't have said, "I love his horse sense.
I love the way he sees my face."
You will look underneath your nasty, dirty skirt and find a way
to justify your feeling of being safe. And when we die
by the hand you gave the knife
either by voice or the sanctified, fucking knife,
you will not recognize God's given grace; you'll only see
the rotten core of your rigid boring, judgmental life.
