Whispers from the megaphone

We all have talent  
and the audience must sit    
through so much of it,    
when a five-pound note    
rolls up to shine.    
    
We funnel words down cables    
hoping digital fish      
will swim across our table,    
Sealions clapping backwards    
for rewards.    
     
but what of fame,    
however it’s earned,    
we sleep with the same      
mask of reality    
and wake with the mistakes    
of our morning paper reviews.    
     
The talking cats have a billion hits    
as the janitor plays Bach    
in the shopping centre.      
The world looks on      
through theatre glasses    
and everyone’s a critic    
     
and we all crave our own five minutes,    
desperate to be in it,    
as the right hand goes into the liquidizer    
the left is still filming    
and the rest are just waiting      
to watch.    
   
So stand naked in your fields    
feel the ground beneath you,    
vomit the data bile    
in gushing screaming streams    
then kneel and fill your hands    
with hard earned earth    
   
and ask the forests for your forgiveness    
for they will be the guides    
and they alone will sustain us    
as the rest of the world dies    
in endings yet to be written.