Peeping Tom Samba

A howl of poetry inspired by the paparazzi and Dante – I will add the music track later!

                                    Peeping Tom Samba                                    


Thomas was this long-lensed loser
an optical onanist; eaves-dropping Eves,
secret exposures : nothing but negatives
wielding his rewinds, fumbling with focal length
with five-knuckle shutter-speeds
she’s flesh-toned in Kodachrome
she’s a sacrifice in Lycra
tied to Canons, fired by Leica
The Zeus-zoom of high Olympus
f-stop fiddling on the roof
he slips out sly as salamanders
to shoot the goose and screw the gander
through shadowed skylines, silhouettes
hunting down his night-lulled prey
through the vertigo-glass savannahs
as they disrobe for bath or bed
they are deflowered by his censors
moonlight is both boon and traitor
in writing this Peeping-Tom Samba.
disingenuous, film and pixels
a hand of God and a lightning rod
his prying spying raping eye
he centre-folds his splintered victims
spindles, spikes and mutilates them
as he titillates as he pixelates
in the red womb of his dark-room
air-brushing out his sexist cyphers
through slug-bulging fish-lens eyes
through stake-out writs and a mobile phone
he’s the architect of Di’s demise
in a dank motel on a silver screen!
His bracketing is all-awry
he’s flapping like a shower curtain
as the critics whip a hue and cry
he’s got more steps than a Hitchcock scene
that’s how he burns her in flagrante
in places deep with silent suns
for the second circle media breeze
he walks the path laid down by Dante

Moonlight shimmers on the tiles
shutters click like castanets
he’s the sparking toaster in a bath
twittering with revelations
and a spoutless, heartless gargoyle laugh
a twisting vein in circulation
two fingers thrust in crude red-eye
as sirens wail and his idols die
Editors drain dry his dregs
sleazy fingers on his thumbnails
tapping in phone-message codes
as they buy his crotch-shot Holy Grail
so he toasts the rat-pack in the bar
where the Bluetooth wi-fi rodents fly
till hyenas howl in harmony
handing Tom his Pulitzer Prizes
Tom now lives on borrowed time
his reckoning long overdue
one day he’s captured in his prime
by the longer-lensed jump-suits in blue
the court proceedings gather pace
Masonic handshakes grasp and fail
his prey spits venom in his face
till Tom is Serco’d off to jail
his clawed hands now Leica-less
he languishes in a crowded cell
through the pinhole-camera in his eye
screams pixel-art of endless hell
the company he now keeps is callous
uncaring that his art endures
so now he gets this brutal lens-flare
and all this bent over-exposure:
“They may hurt my body…
they cannot take my picture!

but I am in my happy place
the sun is no longer silent…
They may hurt my body…
(how they hurt my body)
but I am in my happy place”

He is waist-deep in ice
with not enough faces…


© mitch 2023
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critique and comments welcome.
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