Faux Ingenuousness

If we put into the same bed all that faux ingenuousness 
there wouldn’t be enough room left for other characters; 
imagine those scenes where intrigue echoes between a 
supposed innocent and an utterly despicable incubus of 
rank duplicity - now instead of model role-play and clear 
lines delivered to a T we have an idiosyncratic oddity of  
recidivist raconteur-ism where no-one has a clue who’s 
the guilty bastard - or whether there’s guilt in any of it 

The short of it is facial tics & leery sneers don't engage  
in-character disapprobation necessary to differentiate A 
type from B - we’re in a quandary as to whom the buck 
passes to or from, & as the saying goes, innocent until 
proven otherwise - all because a structured separation 
needed to dramatise and present it properly isn’t there 

It sounds suspiciously like conversations we engage in 
most days, no overwhelming supposed character egos 
to appease or weird regional dialectical rules to abide - 
yet flows like honey with nutmeg and lime; so ergo you 
declare, why do we need overdramatic stereotypes of 
the first, or even latter, case to understand anything 

This ingenuous farce is a waste & no-one’s really that 
naive unless you’re a scriptwriter scribbling platitudes 
on TV Directors’ penchants to keep things the same 
as the last series - which probably explains anxieties 
unidentified as yet why thespian roles hadn’t evolved 
into recognition as saints still to be sanctified 

© 30 July 2014, I. D. Carswell