Newton's Cradle

I look in the mirror.

And see the same thing every time.

I swear to be different.

Turn my back on my reflection.

Knowing I will soon be back.

And staring into those same dead eyes.

Differences

Yours is the limelight, the carpet, the riches.

Mine is the strip light, the concrete, the stitches.

Production

Your white-walled studio
The right letters underlining its name,
Positing ‘it’s who you know’,
Marking participation in the game.

And what’s in a hanging?
Wondrous public executions.
The people’s eyes fanning
Across the artistic ablutions.

Hung, drawn and quartered,
Scent of death, look deep inside,
Everything strictly ordered,
No imagination supplied.