Head Shots by Zapruder

I couldn’t make it
so I sent an 8×10 glossy
to the man at the back of the room
in the middle of the party
he said he thought he
knew my work and asked
if he could sign me
all it took was foresight

and prodigy, prophecy
favouring the possibility
that maybe silent hearts
cry the loudest, that pain
is just a form of art
made to make the plain
stand tall, the short famous
and to teach us all

conquest is just a plot
that winning is really
what losers call out
when someone else
gets the part they were born
to play, so now I’m off to put
my life inside a frame
all of it caught like a flame

in a jar, thought to take
awhile but not long enough
to paint into what’s often
lost in translation: I am
the character and my life
is my creation, I’m the one
you’re p(r)aying for when
rumours forget to say their prayers.