We've been cautioned to surrender
Before jack-boots hit our streets;
It was an open warning
With podium bleats like sheep.

They side-stepped all discretion,
They pivoted 'round masked stealth;
They aired their anonymity
On the media's lips of wealth.

And there, behind the curtain skirts,
Lurking in the wings,
In shadows and back street doors,
They listened,
Pulling strings.

Data
What will happen to us all tomorrow? Now there are so many topics that are illegal and against the law. Things like racism, ageism, bullying and a thousand other things ending in ing and ism. But what about people being spied on by America? Even their friends and allies. Isn't that bad and illegal? Like social stereotyping by law enforcement using stop and search tactics on one racial group? How did we get into this position of spy agencies siphoning up all our data? Phone calls and records, emails and photo attachments. What next? We're all on CCTV. Next they'll want to know how much crap role we use.

The fresh-faced youth, dagger on hip,
is possessed of many secrets.

Spy, chameleon, a wolf in sheep’s clothing,
accustomed to the shadows,
indeed, he is not a ‘he’ at all,
but a woman in service to her dauphin.

The drape of her shirt and breeches
hint at her curves, her muscle,
the delicate arch of her feet
in her red court shoes
long and well suited to
slipping across foreign marble
to do what she must.

She has played the man-at-war,
the page boy and the cupbearer,
the mistress and the catamite,
in the bed of men and women both,
their pillow talk treason carried away
while she still bears their bruises and love bites.  

Servant of the state, the empire,
her lord and her god-
she is Madonna, Joan of Arc,
a thousand women unnamed,
her king’s blade, steel under velvet.

This is a second sky, where blue rises
above all else with lucrative secrecy
and darkness lurks beneath the clouds,
a universe where the atmosphere
is the darkest black and space
is the purest of blues. This is an unknown
place where fear and dominance rule
all that was once considered 'normal',
something you can no longer have
when the satellites turn their eyes
on you. Everything real becomes fake,
everything right is wrong,
and all you know
is that you know nothing
and they know everything. The hidden,
black, forgotten web of constellations
spelt out in dusts of white across
the blue night, where the featureless
omens of this reality circle
with crooked, evil wit,
is pulling me in with its charm.
Now, I am yet another fly
caught in the tides of this spider,
doomed to drown in silk.