Take Your Hands Away From My Eyes

for Flight MH370

Wake me up when all the funerals have passed,
when the last war has finished
and the final plane has crashed.

Take your hands away from my eyes when the lashes on the backs
of those working in thigh high filth have had their wounds attended too.

Touch my thigh to let me know you're next to me
before whispering the headlines in my ear,

Shred the papers and compost them,
because that's all the news is worth.
Make up new ways for  me to live longer on the Earth,
because so far we've been warned that cancer lurks in:
                                                                                    oral sex,
                                                                                    large heads,
                                                                                    plastic bags,
                                                                                    first hand smoke, second hand smoke, third hand smoke,
                                                                                    Worcester sauce- somebody stop me.

Can you guarantee that all the lost children will be returned,
and that my future salary will earn me more than just money,
because I'm tired of being a slave to cash points and four digit pin codes that offer
nothing substantial like confidence or the ability to sleep a whole night through.

Will you kick me in your sleep unintentionally as I regularly assume you're dead because
your breath is sometimes so delicate I can't feel it on my cheek.

Then can you can tell me with tired eyes it's okay to eat because all the hungry stomachs have been filled with something other than mosquito nets and empty promises.