The Committee

There's one in nursery teaching
and one in holy orders,
and others have the silhouettes
of police or prison warders.

It isn't hard to eavesdrop
on their deliberation,
where measured praise is condiment
to overall damnation.

With never-failing patience,
they sit in constant session.
The power of absolution
is not in their possession.

They take my deposition
concerning each depravity
through microphones implanted
inside the cranial cavity.

At night they're hyperactive,
with polymorphic faces,
to rubberneck and nose about
the dark secluded places.

Negotiating keyholes
as easily as vapour,
they crawl through my unconsciousness
like sparks on smouldering paper,

and while my sleeping system
flies blind on automatic,
directions lost for routes I've crossed
still crackle through the static.


© Brian Fewster,
Published in Poetry Review, 1998

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