Tug Dumbly - Hateway

Hateway

‘Never liked him. Never trusted him.

Always something about him.

Bit creepy. Know what I mean?’

The daily outrage squeezed like juice

speeds us honking down the hateway

like geese pumped to bursting with

indignation, moving in murmurations

of loathing, careering into rich pile ups

of jubilating hate, sniffing the blood

spoor on a patch of clothing, baying,

gloating, pouring through the gate,

glutting the throat of the Hateway.

It’s an open invite to crash the party,

bash the piñata, pitchfork the dummy.

A Medieval ducking, what rucking good fun.

Speaking of witch, stick those other old standbys

by the pyre – lynchmob, stocks, village pillory

of Publik Unfrending. Lick of blood

in the nostrils. Round on the wounded lamb

like a vicious pack of clichés. Mud sticks,

where there’s smoke there’s fire. Grind it all

in the crucible as we play Judge Judy

and executioner, guillotine click heretics  

to be stripped, whipped and sent to Coventry

banished to some Siberian wild

far from the crackling Social fire.

Threat detected. Run a scan on yourself.

Do the right thing and self-denounce,

weep mercy like a teleevangelist

gilled in the net of Predation.

Yes the perves get theirs, while we grow canines,

yellow fangs reflected back,

bared in the mirror of our own hate crime.