Truth had it coming, if you ask me.
All those drab facts,
that dull insistence upon
looking at things as they really are,
the stories we would like to hear
out of the way like that.
It’s a surprise it lasted so long.
Far better now
that we can wrap ourselves
in untruth, and emote our way
through the days.
I like to tell one untruth
then three more by lunch,
with a further seven by bedtime.
No, I never said that.
Yes, I did declare all my income.
Yes, I know exactly how you feel.
No, I did not eat the biscuits that were in the tin.
And should any so-called ‘expert’
point at the crumbs
which nestle in the corners of my mouth,
my bottom lip shall tremble,
and I shall say, pity me –
for, since my neighbour moved in,
these crumbs represent
all I have left in the world.
Every night I hear him
sneaking into my home
and helping himself
to another handful of biscuits.
And I shall say these words
with such passion
and such conviction,
over and over and over,
until the pigs
begin to sing in the trees,
and my untruth
becomes a kind of truth itself.