Chrome Man

He had made his mark, that’s for certain,
Indeed, he often almost swoons
Under the weight of his own arrogance,
He leans back in his life –
He likes to recline,
Launch and clamp his hands behind his head,
Let his elbows spear the air
As he desk plots advancement,
He has mastered pointless tasks
To aggrieve his minions with a sneer;
The smear of secret smirks fleet
As if they were waves, rhythmic,
On the shoreline of his domination
As they do his bidding,
Though each day he plans for
Some final satisfaction, and yet -

And yet the boil of aggression still rises;
A pustule so violent that at times
It surprises even him, he breathes in rot,
He accepts his lot, ‘Hold it in’,
He mutters, ‘Keep it in’.
Last night he had one of these creaks
Of conscience, who let this self doubt gargoyle in?
No matter – in the morning he will forget.

- He might go to the Maldives,
Have massages in low lit splendour
By pretty girls who smile and ponder
The degree to which he is a cock,
And he will eat in beachside restaurants
And slur demands at subservient waiters
Who mumble ‘cock’ as they take his order -

He’s not a cock of course, but to be
Considered one by the lower orders
Neatly demonstrates their proper envy.
He will look skywards from a bed of warm sand
And in the morning he will forget
This tug of sentimental against his ego.

He couldn’t remember the last time
He'd cried, for example, and this thought
Seemed to gape like a chasm
At midnight and the cotton sheets
Began to strain, pulled tight, razed
His skin as though he was trying to sleep
On barbed wire - oh yes, he wept then
Didn’t he? Phew, he’s human after all,

Or was it Sarah Jackson crying? Damn,

But she looked good in her death hat and tears,
That’s right – and the church pews hurt
His arse; this was a feeling, but not the one
He’d been mentally scouring out,
Made him finger his receding hairline
With nerves like hot lumps of coal,
But in the morning he will forget.

Sarah Jackson wanted him to look at trees
And listen to the birds, she wanted
His soul to be a log fire not this chrome -
Chrome man, a tower, this toppling Pisa man
Scaffolded only by tin cans and shine,
Talks-about-himself-in-the-third-person man,
But he will await the salve of daybreak
Because in the morning he will forget.