Exiled to a lonely corner, wanting more than letting on
something is wrong with the state of myself,
love as transaction, flowing freely of course
being silently watched, no effort at a smile.
Making the world go round, insolent situation
cutting hands and feet to ribbons in protest,
I don’t care about you anymore, if I ever did
rolling one’s own jelly babies not really my problem.
Serial butterflies galvanise the rotten core,
protected in instances of eventual delivery
home-grown opportunity not a mortal sin
just the run of the day, everything is special.
Principles aside, nothing at a loss.
Breaking through ranks, ass being grass
and me being the lawnmower, catch you out
mutual benefit never hurt anybody.
Instant messages, never mind the duress
the tawdry ambition ascending for the kill
bleeping phones on a constant adventures
transmitting turn-ons, a glorious guilt.
Streetscape for want of a better life,
the passer-by muscles by a hearty congratulations
knowing less than required, plugged-in cartoons
advertising psychosis hidden in a purpose.