Tuesday, 26 July 2011


They call it tapping
Like the gentle pulse of two fingers
On a desk
Like the squeeze
Of water from a pipe
Like a broken rhythm
And shiny shoes
Going clickety clack on a stage

But this is no tap dance
Designed to entrance
You with its subtle footwork
There is no artistry
Or delicacy
Or elegance

This is the heavy hand of headlines
Stamping across the page
Stories sold
And money paid
To hush mouths
And open others

This is the tears of mothers on tape
This is tales that wag
And Wags that tell
And teeth that tut
Over front pages

This is the smell of rotting trees
Branching out into the spying game
This is the rootless world in which we live
Where we feed off murky sources

And they call it tapping
Like two shy fingers stroking on a door
Or like a gentle wake up call
From a lover

But this is life
This is the news
This is information

On tap

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