Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Did you really want?

The membrane pulls back, bursts.
I shout through the mess.
My mouth overflowing.

All this time I have been
walking in gore and plasma
and nobody told me.

I sicken.

This will all fall under the concrete;
I will fall.
Bones buried in fucking.

As unimportant as my paycheque
under the weight of my excuses.
Broken china in the morning
my empty eyes sweeping the shards across
the slicker.
Mesmerised.

Did we really have a chance when
the machines came?

The simple answer is no.

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