She knows everything
has agents in every outpost
sipping mojitos in the shade
averting eyes
then a sudden flick-back
later tapping notes in code
on trusty contraptions
in bedsit rooms at night
landladies downstairs
watching TV unawares
She sees all
although her birds
and bats are now
semi-retired, displaced by
a growing squadron
a crack cadre of elite
miniature drones
cunningly disguised
as flies and wasps and moths
tracking your every move
She no longer pores
over data on spreadsheets
spotty whizz kids in her employ
have devised sensuous algorithms
and apps that flash notifications
to her wearable devices
highlighting patterns and trends
And as for that prototype bug
she syringed into your ear last night
(did that herself — if you want
a job doing well and so forth)
it’s found itself a
quiet little spot
ordered a flat white
and opened a laptop
headphones in
pretending not to listen
to your each and every thought
DAVE STACEY lives and works in London. He has been a secret scribbler for a number of years, only now coming out into the open.
The Cabinet of Heed 