Constraints
By samhennig
- 87 reads
Men stand in Wetherspoons
spouting wisdom
and with them
is the blanket
of a cold Fosters,
brewed in the U.K.
advertised Australian,
fostering
the beach
and the babes
in every sip,
when in truth
flavours of
Mancunian brewery
hit their lip.
Flavourless kiss
of a Mancunian date,
whispering sweet
gin soaked breaths
into their ear.
Accented by
their accent
which if you squint
you won't hear.
Just attach vision
to short skirts
and leer.
Stomachs are shameful,
like farm animals
we are judged by weight,
we wait until morning
for the scales to
lie to us, standing
naked because
clothes mean pounds;
if we have less
we make more.
Middle aged boss:
floss teeth,
adorn Saville row
suit, to suit
persona as a lightweight
Saville in fleshy pursuits.
Sleepers line the streets
and, sleepless,
we retreat
to our beds
for forlorn
grappling beneath
the sheets,
then lie in
audible silence,
awaiting the absence
of light to be broken,
so 'awoken' we can
say good morning,
pretending our mourning
is at its end.
Dive into false light,
inhabiting worlds
of pixels.
Mixing reality
with the social
paralysis of online
life, where talking
involves no speech,
emotionless
through cartoon faces,
places discovered
from the comfort of
chairs. Then in
working hours
our powers of
self discipline
disappear even
further down the rabbit hole,
we end up tapping
mindlessly at keys
with tired eyes
so nobody sees
anything outside
the screen.
The prison we name
as society, pretend that
sobriety is our aim,
when we're all fucked
whether we like it
or not. Tucked
up in bed we numb
our brains by watching
The Apprentice
on our iPads and entice
ourselves into
believing we are better,
then we are shocked
when waking at 4
we panic at the realisation
there is nothing more
to be better at.
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