The great feral novel
every human is in
is ruthless. It exists
to involve and deflate.
It is the meek talking.
The great feral novel
is published, not written
(science bits may be written).
Media grope in its shallows.
The Real Story is their owners.
The feral novel can get you
told the lies about you,
let you hear the Line about you.
It may even tell the truth
if truth is the cool story.
Any farmer who breaks
and suicides, some lot’s
politicians wanted him
o don’t say dead. Gone.
Dead doesn’t always die.
The folk novel’s eyes
did register the barbed wire
and how to get behind it.
Being in the novel helped
a lot in, it says. Some out.
A father jealous of one son’s
bush skills failed to prove
himself the better man, and caused
a younger son’s death trying.
When the skilled son complained
at being kept dependent
and dirt poor for punishment
only others listened
and others don’t back you
in plots not their own.
In theirs, they may be hero
even to acquaintances
but then if they rise
into notice, into print,
fellow convicts eye them.
The man next door
cursed our builders’ noise.
He was writing a book,
so we scoffed, through the hedge,
Shops would sell him a book!
The great feral novel
heaped up streetsful of flowers
for the faux-demure princess
then sniggered them away.
What survives survives this.