Lexington

They made a product out of grief,
Surfaced lower lurking teeth,
An out-surviving mother’s briefed.

A promise, props, facsimiles,
Curses labelled remedies,
Justice in subscription fees.

How many others seek their rest
On death row in a grocer’s mess;
How many more might confess

For future crimes immersed
And later studied in reverse
Within a popcorn universe.

Production Lines

A killer resurrected
On carnival streets,
Arrested, re-sentenced,
By wigs weighing meat,
Though fogs are a prop
And a juror’s asleep.
In the filmmaker’s lens
Victims aren’t heroes,
The victims are missing,
Their paycheck’s a zero.

Each vision has errors,

Ruptures and holes, Boxed set collections, Out from death doled.
Dear Mr Producer,
What good is your lesson,
Your replays reduce
Any sanctified blessings.
You’ll profit in pounds
And buy your new houses,
From parental lost souls
And bloodstains on blouses.