Cut this “Culture” Cult

There is no escaping the mechanised work process,
Office hours are 24/7.
Eight hour shifts spent typing away,
sat at the desk.
Tedious telephone calls.
Blackberrys buzzing.

One can losen his tie at the end of the day
Get the train home,
An hour away.

Then one can relax.
To the banal existence,
Of staring at the same screen.
Hearing the same phone ring.

Technology now rules everything.

With culture and advertising,
You’ll get what your given.
A blank canvas staged as art.
Cheated out of everything but,
The real thing.

For this ‘real thing’ that is promised,
Is yet to be created,
But is hyped and advertised nonetheless.
A distraction from the truth,
The mundane dull life we seek to escape.

The battle of the Doe and the Peacock.

Revamp Revamp,
The lady is a tramp.
The lady doth pretend too much.
Protest and prostitute too much.
She wears scarlet lips, silk underwear
Velvet skirt,
Matching ribbon for her hair.

Oh dear.
The dear.
Her stark wide stare.
Wastes her time ruffling peacocks hair.
Those feathers. So glossy, dark and rare.
Bright blue and jade
The shade,
Of dreamy rivers deep.
Etched with spots of sapphire.

Those vibrant patterns scold the dear that longs for them.
For feathers so beautiful and rare,
Are far too much for the poor dears glare.
Reflect not in the sparkling eyes of the doe; but scold,
Leaving the poor thing cold.

For like deep rivers the colours of jade and even gold
Are enchanting.
But so often cause misery to those who try to behold.
Jaded rivers deep, sink ships.
And peacocks sapphire feathers scold.

Tarts should not fall in love.
Jealous boys break more hearts.
One cannot tame the ego of the peacock.

Other.

If you give me time to explain myself.
To articulate why I cannot refrain myself
From doing what I’m meant not to do.
I do it because you tell me not to.

The others tell me.
They mutter.
To get me into trouble.
Like a comic devil on my shoulder.
That’s the other.

I’m not sure who she is, but she creeps up on me.
She doesn’t talk but she talks over me.
She can’t communicate. So she just shrieks.

The other is a chameleon,
A demon.
A self destructive attention seeking.
Evil, plotting gambler.
She always wins.
Her risk taking; one of many sins.

The other isn’t evil,
She means well.
Just seeking entertainment.
No time to sit and dwell on what might be.
No wait and see.
She won’t even wait for me.
Must escape from captivity.

Arrives late at night,
High as a kite.
Dressed like Jack the Ripper,
Equipped with cape and knife.
Is she a murderer if she can accessorize?

The other excuses my wicked past,
Finishes another bottle,
Then tucks herself into bed.
With another boy.
Another toy, distraction and joy.
She says we’re very alike, the only problem is I don’t enjoy cleaning up the mess when she scarpers.

I’m left to pick up the many fragmented pieces of glass she smashed.
I never really can tell if she’s bad.
Or just as mad, as Carroll’s hatter.

The Fair.

Roll up roll up,
welcome back to the fairground.
Hazy lights,
Cheap thrills.
Frights.
We're soaring high as kites, again.

Holding hands and sticky candy floss,
so we're dizzy together.
Sweet sickly bites.
Things go bump in the night, again.

Roaring rollercoster rides.
Hold me tight.
Don't let me out of your sight.

Dancing towards disaster,
it all goes so much faster,
when i'm with you
Don't let me down tonight.

Then its over,
all the laughter,
the gasping goldfish,
out of water,
in the plastic,
will probably last longer.
It makes me wonder,

Whats the point in going to the fair?

Scars

I’m a product, this serial code marks me.
These scars cover me.
Like hot waxy lasers mark the cows.
The tattoos tell who shall be eaten first.
I’m number 101. Next to the slaughterhouse.
Razored quite deep. I never mean too.
That boiling pan slipped. My arm bright red.
Sizzles from the waters caress.

That stupid architect marked me again.
With her many pens, she doodles.
Crafted works of misery in blood.
Scratches and burns. It’s not conventional beauty
Much appreciated nonetheless.

This one blisters, the many layers of skin.
Raw. Red. Deep.
The insides unfamiliar. I always thought I was shallow.
But now my hand is more grated than the dinner I failed to cook.
The knife chopped up my fingers and instead threw them in the pan.

The potatoes safe on the worktop
Comfortable in their battered brown skins.
The onions mock me and my new layers.
My crimson cuts show they are better than me.
I’ll go hungry again.

POCKET WATCH

You’ve left me alone.
With only my pocket watch.
Times laughing at me.
“What are you going to do with it all?” she says.
I shrug.
Turn away.

They say the young and beautifuls enemy is time.
Decaying, Destructive.
I thought you were divine.

Catch me quick.
Before it’s too late.
Peter Pan has been and gone.
He’s long since flown away.
Neverland won’t wait for me.
I’d love to live in a world that lacks intimacy.

Tick Tock Tick Tock.
The clock has struck.
Close my eyes.
Force me to decide.
Choose a life.
Wendy will survive.

Pigeon Shooting

Paradoxical bird,
You live off lemon curd, and seeds.
Shrieking of rights for your fellow kind.
Then fluttering away in fright.
Time for flight.
So your songs remain unheard.
Fly or run.
Torturous scum, chases you to the sun.
Pointing and cocking,
Man triggers his gun.