Rockstars

Upon that stage perform rock deities,
Gods in leather and tattoo forms,
Or so they seem to think,
These are not humble musicians,
But bona fide rockstars,
Sex drugs and rigmarole,
Feeding off the crowds fervour,
Emotionally and financially,

Let the punters admire our bluster,
Lyrical talent precludes niceties,
The publics love is expected,
They are here to cradle our egos,
So the stars proclaim,
They must adore us,
That’s why we turned up,
A mere hour late or so,

Despite the honest many,
Entertainment breeds egotism,
The musical arts co-opted by arrogance,
Souls in it for purely monetary gain,
Peacocks with guitars and autotune,
Trilling manufactured static,
Music sheets reduced to commodity,
To pretentious product.

Toyshop

Ladies and gentlemen,
Younglings of every ilk,
Step right up,
To our humble abode of trifles,
Our house of silly little playthings,
A prison of giggles and vivacity,
We’ve got a toy for every ill,
Teddies and rocket ships and broken bits,
Plastic soldiers all on parade,
Building sets and clowns and consumerism,
So walk our halls of fun and dead smiles,
Shiny eyes following you as you peruse,
Oh yes indeed,
You should see it at night,
These shelves writhe like a gaggle of eels,
Wood and plastic coming to life.

Green Creed

A virus has spread rapidly betwixt populations,
Not of the medical slant,
But one of conditioning,
That green corruption,
A religion of dollar notes and bankrolls,
Worship of excess,
We are converted at birth,
The nickel and cotton are the priests of this cult,
An emerald plague,

We submit ourselves to their prestige,
Their amassment,
It pervades every facet of our lives,
From the crib to the crypt,
The slum up to the manse,
Yet this is no sacred belief system,
It’s a creed laid upon viridian mandates,
It’s capitalism,
It’s greed or starvation.

Job Hunting

To contribute to society,
One must follow the societal rules,
And petition the lords of mercantilism,
Selling your body and time on Earth,
Each bullet point of worth on a scrap of paper,
It’s a demeaning lottery,
For the privilege of sustenance,

You’ll find you’re naught but a resource,
Copper to their gold,
It’ll leave you a husk,
Lesser,
Giving all for the myth of a life,
All for that coveted position,
That fortuity to plug oneself into the machine.

Credit

We all exist as credit,
Becoming farm machinery,
Biology has given way to economy,
Within that chest cavity lies no organ,
But a leathery wallet,
Never quite full enough,
Your lifeblood never stretches quite far enough,

You are your credit score,
You are your capital,
Currency is your life’s work,
Those above have deemed as such,
Neon gods and wall street angels,
In curiously lofty cathedrals,
Such is the half-life we now lead.

Chess With Lives

To the fat cats,
In their heinous smoking rooms,
Life and the world are games of chess,
They are kings and queens in boardrooms,
While the bishops are no more than shills,
Preaching their version of the rules,

On this globular chessboard,
We are all teak pawns,
Serfs to faceless chess masters,
The knights have already routed,
The rooks already crumbled to dust,
Mere vestiges of fair play,

We are thrown at each other with abandon,
Smashed into atoms,
All our colours becoming red then brown,
They play for their own ends,
They play with our lives,
There is no endgame.