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The mahogany door clicks shut like a guillotine blade.
A heavy vacuum drinking the oxygen from the hallway until the lungs burn.
Inside it smells of expensive sandalwood and the sour bile of old milk.
A cloying sweetness designed to mask the scent of a basement that eats the sun.
The silk sheets hiss like vipers against the purpled skin of a thigh.
The rip and the tear and the wet iron taste of the blood on the tongue.
The violation is a surgical strike on the future.
A hand reaching in to rip the womb and the uterus of a generation.
Stealing the light from the eyes of a child for the sport of the bored.
They harvest innocence like a crop and store it in the vaults of the global mind.
An anatomy of a crime draped in the luxury of a curated silence.
They took the warning of the book and made it a wallpaper for the elite.
They turned the scream into a fashion choice for the bloated.
The girl in the sundress is not a muse she is a carcass in the making.
A ghost before she even knew the shape of her own name.
Loss of innocence sold by the yard in the backrooms of the state.
The children are the raw meat of the unmade world.
Traded for a seat at the table.
Traded for a piece of the digital moon.
USD thousands.
USD millions.
Trump in the gilded lift smelling of sweat and orange dust and old man skin.
Mandelson in the high walled garden of bone china silence.
Chomsky in the cold light of the ledger ignoring the scream for the theory.
Clinton in the shadows of the jet with the eyes of a hollow man.
Prince Andrew in the silk lined room claiming the sweat did not exist.
Dershowitz in the court of the damned weaving the shroud of the law.
The rot goes deep into the fabric of the city.
Into the fashion houses where the bodies are just hangers for the brand.
Into the children’s TV networks where the predators wear the masks of clowns.
Into the PR firms that polish the blood off the mahogany.
Into the celebrity firms that trade in the silence of the starlet.
Into the halls of the academy where the Oscar winners sip the vintage red.
Feasting on the hearts of the disappeared.
The dog pulls at the leather leash while the basement screams.
The curb is a boundary between the pasta steam and the blind eye.
The kettle whistles to drown the sound of the snap.
The rent is paid with the heavy coins of the disappeared.
The gossip at the dinner party is a nail in the coffin.
The shrug is a velvet shroud.
The punchline is a razor blade tucked under the tongue.
The meme on the flickering screen is the laughter of the damned.
The morning commute is a funeral procession for the truth.
We are polite and waiting for the green light to cross the road.
Into the path of the predator’s limousine.
The glass shatters.
The teeth snap.
The world
Ends.
The small shoes are a haemorrhage on the polished floor of the high rise.
The predator is not a shadow he is the architect of your reality.
He is the one who signs the decree and the one who sips the tea.
While the womb of the future is hollowed out for a weekend of sport.
The gut punch is the mirror in the hallway.
The way you look at your own hands and see the ghost of the silk.
The way you hear the snap of the bone and call it the settling of the house.
The island is not a remote geography.
The island is the way we choose to breathe.
A cannibal feast in a room with a view.
And the children are still waiting for the fire you were too polite to light.
Break.
Break the neck of the silence.
The radio is static.
The radio is static.
The radio is static.
Scream it.
Scream it until the throat is a canyon of blood and salt.
Where is the flamethrower.
Where is the fire.
Why are the streets not burning.
Why are the houses of the monsters still standing.
Tear the skin off the day.
Let the air bleed.
Watching.
The.
Screen.
Flicker.
Black.
Black.
Black.
The ledger is wet.
The blood is wet.
The street is empty.
The door is locked.
The thud.
The thud.
The thud.
A finger on the box.
The sharp scent of sulphur and phosphorus.
Strike.
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