The dictator's son raises his right hand as he takes his oath. Photojournalists shoot pictures: they use parfocal lenses, maintaining focus even when length or distance changes. Click, click. His wrist is wrapped in a very expensive timepiece —multiply or divide, to get the equivalent in your currency. But the words from his mouth stammer like ordinary horses after each other. The pictures float around in the same sea of social media where bits of other questionable narratives circulate like a flotsam of movie trailers. And there's the murderer's daughter, raising her hand to mouth a promise. The other hand touches the many, many accordion pleats of her gown. It's cut from something soft and gauzy and also very expensive; certainly not T-shirt material. In a reel that's making the rounds, the dictator's son takes hold of his new subordinate's hand, lightly swinging it. They look lost in their own world. They are absolutely pleased with themselves. Does the camera lie?
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.