SMOTHERED

SMOTHERED

smothered mate
Mr Bond

love of
Queen (now King)
and country
has
  squashed you
into a corner

no man supposedly
an island but
you appear
to be a
tiny one

deluded by the believed
magnificence
of your
self-
importance

and now
to put it bluntly
you are
   screwed, have
lost the game

and this
    foreign, highbrow, villainous
post-atomic, cyber-
crime,
    deformed
asexual, intellectual mutant

gloating at how
     you took the Gambit, swallowed
the poisoned pawn

in one wrong move altered
geopolitics
    and the nature
of Empire

and you
with your jaw
hewed from granite and
tinker-tailor brain

wondering if like
Admiral Horatio you too
will be
   elevated above the laiety
on towering
plinth
   or column

as the streets of old-time Motherland  clucking
for
  her lost
children

all smashed to chicken shit
beg you
to resign next move
before,
    like a guillotine, it befalls,
becomes the
iconic moment captured
for all time
   that now will change
                        everything

IN THEIR NEED TO BOND

IN THEIR NEED TO BOND
“Oh, Mr Bond!” Raul Silva
“Skyfall”

the rogues
want to prorogue

they want to
go Klingon
they want to buccaneer
they are the
best worst pirates
you had
rather you
had never heard
of

when ferocious alpha aliens
arrive to conquer in
(of all things) their mothership

they will be desperate to
host, put on
a show,
suicidal in
their need to bond

play footsie-
tentacle
    under the table

with these creatures
human, or alien,
nothing ever
      on the level

nothing
above board

Sent from my iPhone