Anna King Selective Memory : Poems after Paris ‘ WE LIED .’
To David Duckenfield and Kelvin MacKenzie , Who ’ s to say what I would claim , with the weight of ninety-five ( now -seven) pressing down ? Chief superintendent , match-commander , why bear the weight at all with the dead there , primed to lift it ? ‘ The enemy within ’, the hooligans the self-pity city the drunken fans the thugs the 95 - 97 . Take blood , then - of course from the children - this is the precedent , and God help us if we stray from it . WE LIED and off flies MacKenzie ’ s vampiric pen , that tears through the grieving for the good stuff ; he will always eat where they are eaten , buffeting the hollow-eyed and seizing on the stretcher-carriers , emerges from a tragedy with a beacon of refuse , he brays , he brandishes THE TRUTH . Fans forced Gate C . Fans pissed on cops . You scum , and this will be the story , this the truth - scousers never buy The Sun . Murdoch shrugs .
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