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The Mask

When visiting father i wear masks
forged in fires of Plasticine.
Pull holes in cheeks,.
twisting forehead through obscene furrows,
burrowing into its chin,  
imagine i’m on a plinth.
Synthetic suit cut to an inch, yet tainted.
writhing mid distance
like figures in a Bacon painting.
How grand am i hidden,
thinking you don’t know me
like you never did.
I twist eyebrows with finger tips,
curl lip to magisterial sneers  
fooling everyone and no one.
After all i’m only on display.
Brisk helper brings tea
“It’s not as cold as your heart.” she says
My father points and laughs.
“I always knew who wore that ridiculous mask,
heart of stone wrapped beneath.
Marching in like Hitler’s henchman
seething with fake saintly ways.
Take him out with his feet of clay
so i can reach out,
re model the remains of my days.”

27 May 17

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