Diana Playlist

Shipping broadcast, numbers station or Diana Death Tape,

we never knew how to discuss the eery.

Traced my finger along the ridges of a lobby mat carpet,

full of snakebite, waiting out a freshly minted black eye.

A year before and your awakening was not my mum or yours

choking back tears as the coffin unloaded.

It was instead the radio that did it, your sleeper cell

activated by drones and the gentle reminder.

And the tastefulness of the response, that is

there exists someone who maps tone to scenario.

And they do it well, so our hands can be held in exception,

where everything is tepid unless it's poll tax or football.

The solemn strings of pause slow down again tonight - 

stuck here so we can think about what we've done.