Writ Of Coin

You mean to tell me,
That this wretched scrap of fabric,
Green as envy,
Is the meaning of life?
The means of ones survival?

I’m to break my back for this writ of coin?
This imitation of worth?
To bear restless nights and foreboding,
Over its accumulation,
Must we sell our souls to the banker?

What ever happened to,
Art and triumph,
And love and joy?
Were they rendered obsolete during my sleep?
Replaced by this sickly green memento?

Work hard for scraps,
Your little jade tokens,
And watch others,
Those fat cats,
Grow fatter.

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.

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.