I might be a slave to capitalism
That’s what I’ve decided
These wild hours sat with a screen
And then evenings spent pumping out words
Like some verbose, defecating machine
Weekends working that hamster wheel again
The money is addicting
And the silence of not doing
Is deafening
So I’ll do and continue to do
To fill the quiet air with pennies and pounds
And stop it inflating with the cold tickle of worry
Bumbling, sore, back is bruised from the inside
Chest is tight, feet feel swollen
Convinced I’m dying in some way
(I guess we all are, in the end)
Poised to deliver, biting off more than my mouth and fingers can handle
Capitalist slave, I didn’t realise rest is rebellion.
Tag: Career
Always working
Work is swallowing me whole
I’m devoured, kicking and stomping against the roof of its Victorian mouth
Stringy thoughts like syrup
Cling to colleagues and projects and deadlines
And weekends are hazy and jagged
Flooded with feelings of money earning, the grind 48 hours from now
An empty Saturday lends itself to too much time spent musing
With money churning in the background
Realising you’re a cog, small and insignificant
Working always, whether it’s at the 9 to 5
Or working on myself
Always ruminating, stalling, forgetting, planning
Sheets sodden with schedules and words
Blunt days off with no real purpose
Work thoughts pour in like post drought rain.
Colin Firth on my commute again
Chug chug chug
There are looks and then there are stares
And wide-eyed candy floss pink blushes
Contained in dim lit, smoke studded carriages
Stuffed with meat and bodies and faces and breaths
Some of which aren’t as sweet smelling
As the dulcet tones of Elizabeth Bennett
Or Mr Darcy and his linens (I presume)
A meaty marathon of viewing this weekend
Has urged me to start saying “I am not 27”
Just like when they say they’re “not 16”
Or “not one and 20”
Because it sounds more abstract
A guessing game
And I’m sure I would be looked at quizzical
But I’d probably enjoy it
As that’s the kind of shit I get off on.
The middle of the carriage
And I’ll stand in the middle of the carriage
Entwined around a bar
Legs wedged around rucksack
Head resting on the pole
And instead of feeling exposed
In a sea of people – the only one standing
I toughed it out and remained there lurking
Could have hop-footed to the end
And hidden by that menacing window
That blows your hair to and fro
And is too stiff to raise
(I know, I’ve tried)
Instead I stayed stuck firmly in the middle
Of this leaky, foul-breathed carriage
Where coffee slurps and morning angst
Flood through like creaking sludge
The middle is where I was
Until a seat popped up
Like those rarest of Pokemon
And I snatched it and sat
Content with my mini achievement for the day.
Happy birthday Mum.
I don’t need a car, a job, a husband, a dog
I just need my mum, she says.
24 and staring at the floor
Kicking my feet like a wannabe Dorothy
Kansas why’d ya leave me sore?
24 and needing a cuddle
Brain is just a jumbo muddle
Curse you, Mum, for being the best
Just look at the monstrous bar you set!
Gimme shelter, said the Stones
Well I agree, I need my home
Nothing bad ever happens there
The kids all dance without a care.
Mum, please carry me in your pocket
Whisk me off to Marks and Sparks
Spend those pennies, park the car
See pensioners fight over frilly bras
Chicken breasts and caviar.
24 and kicking my feet,
You’ll never be rid
Of this big-ass baby.
