Sunday, 24 January 2010


We hail to the divinity of the suits,
when they sit there in their fine silks and crown themselves king on our behalf..
Where does it end?
When did it start?
You have to audition to get the part,
hand on heart,
reciting the tart words of a fabricated lament.
You have to process yourself through a culture conveyor belt,
ploughing through the textbook definition of life itself.
Demanding nothing, owning nothing, yet owing everything.

1 comment:

  1. I love your site! The title is really neat, and I love your poetry!!

    I look forward to following you!