Gulled by Jane Salmons

Dear Jim,

Please fix it for me to meet Nellie Kim

(I wrote when I was ten)

or any others from the Russian gymnastic team –

it’s my dream, to train with them.


Lucky for me, the tv king who

doled out gold from his magic red chair

never replied.  I’d have been his type –

tiny, obliging, ripe

for the picking.


Fast forward in time

concealing his crimes through

a smoke-screen of cigar smoke

a facade of fake charm

a front of faux friends in

powerful places

(Maggie, the pope, Charles and Di)

the peroxided creep

with his mother-fixation

duped the nation

mugged us off

‘ow’s about that then

had the last laugh.


How did we fail to see

the grimmest of truths

the grotesque abuse

the holes in his string-vest stories

the gaudy glory of

his marathons, his charities, his celebrity?


It’s easy to point the finger at

those nearest who knew,

those too scared or too scarred

to name and shame.

Yet we’re all to blame;

a collective failure

to know how much

of those we think we know

is ever true.


Jane Salmons is a teacher living and working in the Black Country.  She has been published in Creative Writing Ink.


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