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: work
The video call conundrum
Like feeling around in the dark
Trying not to step on toes
Fingers in eyes
Teeth glinting, words warbling
Ignored and then repeated
If still ignored then give it up
Wait for the wave to pass
Then plunge into its dark creases
When you think there’s an opening
(But of course you can never tell)
So you’ll probably end up soaked in shame
A blur in their peripherals
Dunk your head under for a third time
Trying not to get wet
Trying to let your words penetrate
The foamy skin
Stopping short of shouting
Like screaming into the void
But you might as well be on mute
I’ll tear my hair out before this is over
A bald, shadow-slurping mess
Is what I’ll be reduced to
Like feeling around in the dark
For dropped keys on a dusky carpet
Clad in dead skin, fingers twitching
Like being blind at a party
Not knowing who you might grope
Like shouting into the void
Might as well be on mute.
Rush hour ramblings
Pandemonium at Waterloo
At quarter to six.
Desperate, jumping commuters
Juggling briefcases, contents akimbo
Scurry like mice to the platform’s edge.
Scuttling, weak-kneed pensioners are thrown into a gruelling moshpit
Seats are treasures
For the fast and furious
Who tread on toes and elbow ribs and shove handbags
Muffled sorrys
Echo in a room filled with people desperate to get home.
Warbling announcements tell of woeful delays
Heels click, mouths tut, throats yawn.
And then a dash to the train turns into a marathon
Survival of the fittest, else you’ll have to stand.
The horrors of rocking up at Vauxhall
Knowing there’s no space.
Pedestrians left looking lemon-faced, scorned
Like a cruel joke we ride on past.
Me seated, on my way to inhale some jambalaya,
Them standing, wondering when they’ll catch a break.
The same happens at Clapham Junction
And I’m just a little bit sympathetically smug.
