By Chol
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Toxic Politics

Trust him, trust her, trust me. It’s a heavy word, trust, almost as though the letters get stuck in between your fingers, like glue, the one like when you’re a kid that sticks and you peel it off.

The staged lighting, the bright white teeth, the stare and smile straight into camera, tinges of foundation makeup radiating at the edge of their jaws. They are the jaws of sharks – the sea, the waves, they draw you in, lull you into the sweet melodies of the water, and then out of nowhere there’s a bite. Sharp teeth breaking through, and your world is changed. Not that they admit that, but then we are not one of them. Are we? Us, we are, the other, the cogs in the well oiled machine of working, keeping our head down. Because if we looked up, what might we see? Those masks fall off their faces, the ugly bubbling away truth that is too embarrassed to come through. The snazzy slogans, the wish and hope that they mean what they say, I mean, if only a politician would actually answer a bleeding question. Porn in the House of Commons, beers at Downing Street, legs being a distraction for our leaders, this playhouse with Big Ben watching over makes a mockery of us all. 

Tick, tock, tick tock, tick, tock. 

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