Transmitters on top of the telephone exchange
Protrude above trees in the town centre
Like the tips of paper cracker crowns
That no one has bothered to put on.
Smudges of - is that ice cream or sick? –
Sputter and hiss in the heat like airlock bolts
As though the streets were flaying themselves
To reveal a gigantic intestinal Pacman machine.
Familiar as the scent of Old Spice or blood
Is the act of turning away from a photographer,
You claim it’s because you hate your own face
But don’t admit you’re afraid that everyone else will too.
And you will spend the rest of your life wishing
That there was an app to always tell you
To keep on ignoring news about those
For whom life leaves no time for favourites.