Ode To A QC

I remember thinking
Over our molotov coffee
He begrudgingly,
Grumpily bought,
Coins on a cold café floor,
Coughing as usual,
How his rhubarb-leaf ears
Were so inexplicably big
They would surely catch
The hidden meanings,
Sounds and smoky nouns
Of our resounding planets,
The morning before
He won the case,
The morning before
Another dawn became itself,
Manifold in her own justice.


One day all the press,
Online and print,
Will be formed completely
With advertisements,
One hundred percent
Fillings, from habidashery
To gasoline proponents,
To hide and collude
And ride and dismiss
The dissenting
Foaming waves
As they rise and crash,
While starved waters
Of truth inundate
Studios, penthouse flats,
And meeting rooms.
If that’s not already
The case, then I’m a
Pregnant seahorse adrift,
Or a starfish colonising
Panamanian dunes
And Honduran rifts,
Just like that
Spate a decade ago,
When some matter
Or other took place,
A tort-law judge
Deigned beneath his silks
That we too were beneath
His bar of knowing
What does and doesn’t exist.

So I superinjunctioned myself
And no one could know,
Neither families nor friends,
The life I deprived
Of myself, unpublished,
To the public unknown,
A red headline splashing
Other content to fool
The populous into confirming
Their pre-suppositions,
While the actual event
Slipped by unopposed.