Karl's Own Pomes


Armies move and cameras turn -
blind machines, a vicious trust.
The players stumble, jerk, burn:
Faces, bleeding, dust.

On a million TV screens one cries,
wrapped in silken twists of flame
and dies and dies and dies and dies.
At ten past ten he'll die again.

Embalmed as long as tape shall last,
his name unknown, uncredited,
we hold his screaming moment fast
till, duty done, he's edited.

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Page last updated 12 July 1999