Modern Man

That creature there,
They call him a modern man,
An apex in this cold digital age,
Prim and proper in razor obsidian ensemble,
Well groomed like an incubus,
And oxfords upon his draconic pads,

He breathes out asbestos and tungsten,
Toxic despite his magnetic allure,
He helped cultivate this concrete jungle,
Hunting furs in Wall Street,
He speaks in radio static,
Talking of profit margins and stocks,
Where his weighted feet fall,
Tarmac and franchises grow,

He’s an alpha male,
Whatever that means,
A man of means,
He and his friends bet on vagrants,
Can’t be winners without losers,
And doesn’t that just sound modern?

Datastream

We are all data,
Little binary toys,
A horde of zeroes,
Leashed to digital space,

Simply prey to a carnivorous system,
Swimming like salmon through databases,
Pushing all of the opulence upstream,
While being picked off by bears in taxman gown,

We are just numbers to be counted,
A sticker book collection,
For some child in a highborn office,
A creature with a taste for silver spoons.

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.

Tinseltown

That sign on the hill,
That ivory chapel to fame,
What those letters represent is a façade,
A corpse flanked by stage lights,
Shining and corrupt,
Sprawling yet shallow,

It’s a predator,
It has devoured countless souls,
The city sells glamour and exotic highs,
Whilst thirsting for youth and flesh,
Its alleyways are chock-full of corpses in tuxedos,
Skeletons of proteges and child stars,

It is beautiful,
The most lethal places are,
Those roads are coated in gold,
But peel those pavement stars up,
Slab by slab,
And underneath lies cancer and putrescence,

Those cityscapes hide much,
Casting couch teeth,
Vampires in directors chairs,
Narcotics around every block,
The city of angels?
An oxymoron to be sure.

Dire Chemicals

Poison is everywhere,
Accepted as a necessity,
Chemicals of every dire strain,
Vile greens and eerie crimsons,
Foreboding browns and unassuming clear liquids,
Synthesized by white coats and labs,
Injected into all our feed,
They do not have baleful names,
But do you know their makeup?
I do wonder,
Is every atom reputable?
Chemistry is a risky game to play,
With far too many snake eye variables,

To you who claim your body as you own,
I ask you earnestly,
Do you truly know what you take in,
Which dire chemicals you ply?

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.

Medication

Living is all chemicals,
Being is all medication,
Blood and acid and sugar,
Saltpeter and alcohol and enzyme,
The flesh is merely stone without it,
We require it,
So voracious have we become,
There’s a chemical for every ill,

Have a bit of pain?
Pop a pill,
Black clouds overbearing?
Best get on that firewater,
Your brain is rebelling?
Antipsychotics have got you honey,
Stress overstimulates that tired heart?
I’ve got a light here,

Medicate that little problem,
And all of those too,
It’ll fix any issue you have,
Imagined or otherwise,
For better or for worse,
It can even offer a way out,
Tired of it all?
Here’s some Flavourade.

The Cubicle

Rise from the crypt once more,
Auschwitz train public transport,
Punch in your life for the day,
The contract must be honoured,
Buttoned shirt chain gang,
Water cooler whispers,

To the cell again,
To the cubicle,

As the four walls bear over,
All is grey,
Stare at the cyclops,
Burn the charts and signatures into your eyes,
Assignment after assignment,
Your spirit sapped for another day,

In the cell again,
In the cubicle,

You’ll be a pension package husk,
Or at least that’s the plan,
So keep stumbling onwards,
Back to your humble crypt,
Die once more,
Do it all again tomorrow,

To the cell again,
To the cublicle.

Workweek

Behold the week of work,
A recurring man-made chronology,
The one true supposed lifestyle,
Seven days,
Seven orbits,
Seven opportunities,
Seven punishments,

For some it can be less,
A day or twos respite,
But the hours grind down nonetheless,
The iron maidens in the office shall always hunger,
Your cubicle cell shall wait for you,
The pressure shall always return,
The taskmasters must have their due.

Icons

We bow to icons,
All of us,
They control us without our knowledge,
Symbols and portraits and likenesses,
Permeating influence over our cortices,

They’re shapeshifters you know,
They change to suit our ideals,
Or our vices,
Not necessarily malignant,
But still all-consuming,

To one man it could be a godful symbol,
Words from an invisible man,
Commanding words from the past,

The lady over there sees a dollar sign,
The path to prosperity,
The religion of finances and using,

This boy idolises his favourite star,
Tentatively forming a blueprint he wishes to follow,
An icon dictating his lifes path,

Another man looks up to the statue of his leader,
His eyes well with respect,
Even while his taxes rise,

These things are everywhere,
Inanimate perhaps,
But nevertheless powerful,
Billboards and cenotaphs and celebrities,
Icons hold an influence over us,
That rivals even deities.