Power Surge

Ingram was the spit of me:
he did not burn alone.
His deaths became, by each degree,
themselves a kind of elegy
for murders, which, by state decree
invest in flesh and bone.

Bullet in the neck or chest,
the rope which gives a twist,
the sword, the cord, the acid test,
the lethal hypodermics pressed,
the hail of stones (go East, go West)
are held in Ingram's fist.

Spitting images are found
wherever skull-caps fit.
For those whose arms are slowly bound,
for those whose heads are coiled and crowned,
for those whose cries are underground,
for those whose ashes make no mound,
for those who turn their words around,
for those whose nerves are not unwound,
for them, this substitute for sound
is epitaph. Dead spit.

From the book Tony Blair reminds me of a budgie

Nick Ingram was electrocuted to death in Georgia,twelve years after being sentenced to death for tying an innocent husband and wife to a tree and shooting them each in the head. Reprieved on a Thursday night, he had earlier declined a final meal. After being reprieved the next night, only to have the reprieve overturned in 2 hours, he declined also the offer of 'last words'. Instead, he spat in his gaolers' faces. In the Sunday Express, Peter Hitchens("I WATCHED HIM DIE") regretted that he had not used this solemn moment to apologise for the murder.