History is reclassifying me, eyeballs stuck
to windows, trick-mirrors, peepers
feeling around the detailed corners,
well-rounded in the spycraft of futures.
I am apprehensive about my late decisions,
the state of affairs, the fact my labourious
knowing is become a crime in parliaments.
If only I’d been born in a nest of indifference,
like a rat, some self-serving animal,
unburdened with rightness, red-fanged,
laddering my way upwards with spines
removed randomly from the brood,
sharing them down again straight after,
for the aligned bottom-feeders to consume.
If only my strange sense, my appetite
for justice, could be roundly ripped out
by the servants of blissful acceptance-
then I would not ever deviate, or think to,
or question opaque organisations.
I would not conspire of flight, a stance
against their cathedrals of exceptionalities.
But history is experienced, a double-agent,
has long crawled all the auditory tunnels:
a cold comfort exposing that some state
of worth is ideal, is coming if championed,
and that witnesses remain, they remember,
that whistling has the best chance at health,
that truth needs to be blown to be believed in.