people waiting
a moment’s pause in the work-day
food-lines’ uninspiring insipidness
filling the hunger-gap
tediously stretching time and sustenance
till the stopped-clock ticks again
till hands turn gainfully back
to earn their keep
earning their masters’ keep
we are legion
we are motley
we are a parade of fools
canteen-time, time-is-money time
lunch-break, tea-break
breakneck gasping for breath
only a minute’s countdown seconds
from the grindstone flat-screen world
the data stream, the interface
the coal face where the job is done
pause for air, not too long
share a shrug, crack a joke
the last-laugh-is-on-you
and on and on and on
to grindstone’s end
for allotted times
we queue silent
look like robots
for all the suits and ties
the shop-bought clothes
mask our dragging feet
workers of the world,
robots, drones
are what we are
our days are numbered
the hairs upon our heads
numbered
cells and veins
quantified and timed
to one second of arc
on our wrists numbers tick up
on our screens down
day begins, clock on
and ends, clock off
between
we process order from chaos
make sense of clamour
we buy, we sell
others’ wares
we are already bought and sold
the dinner queue
respite with appetite
the bacon smell
cheap margarine spreads
like a rumour
our lives the thin filling
between the prison
of bread and butter
shuffling
footsteps at the counter
words and smiles
pretend this is a life
and well provided
our reflections
in the warped mirrors
in the dispensary glass
shaped by stacks of cram
manufactured snacks
shabby sandwiches
me, the half-man
pretension and uselessness
him, the tattoo-boy
on his neck another face
as if his own was not enough
her, the high-heel woman
teetering too heavy for the catwalk
in cheap finery
an old woman in young woman’s shoes
faces and figures
row on row
follow one another for the feast
treadmill sustenance
all ownership stripped out
down-at-heel
glad to be so enthralled
so mesmerized
by the machinery of trade
we pick away at meagre meals
take up our meagre pay
sigh for wanting better days
sigh for missing worse
the work goes on
business as usual
for every coin the hungry find
a hundred more
go clinking at the tills
a river down a sink-hole
running away underground
out of sight
to where the seething metal
is magicked into gold
away from us
the shambling horde
hidden from our ignorant eyes
the alchemical elite
divvy up the spoils
the fruits of our labour
but there is no magic
only sleight of hand
shallow subterfuge
we are the poor who make them rich
they are the rich who made us poor
a moment’s pause in the work-day
food-lines’ uninspiring insipidness
filling the hunger-gap
tediously stretching time and sustenance
till the stopped-clock ticks again
till hands turn gainfully back
to earn their keep
earning their masters’ keep
we are legion
we are motley
we are a parade of fools
canteen-time, time-is-money time
lunch-break, tea-break
breakneck gasping for breath
only a minute’s countdown seconds
from the grindstone flat-screen world
the data stream, the interface
the coal face where the job is done
pause for air, not too long
share a shrug, crack a joke
the last-laugh-is-on-you
and on and on and on
to grindstone’s end
for allotted times
we queue silent
look like robots
for all the suits and ties
the shop-bought clothes
mask our dragging feet
workers of the world,
robots, drones
are what we are
our days are numbered
the hairs upon our heads
numbered
cells and veins
quantified and timed
to one second of arc
on our wrists numbers tick up
on our screens down
day begins, clock on
and ends, clock off
between
we process order from chaos
make sense of clamour
we buy, we sell
others’ wares
we are already bought and sold
the dinner queue
respite with appetite
the bacon smell
cheap margarine spreads
like a rumour
our lives the thin filling
between the prison
of bread and butter
shuffling
footsteps at the counter
words and smiles
pretend this is a life
and well provided
our reflections
in the warped mirrors
in the dispensary glass
shaped by stacks of cram
manufactured snacks
shabby sandwiches
me, the half-man
pretension and uselessness
him, the tattoo-boy
on his neck another face
as if his own was not enough
her, the high-heel woman
teetering too heavy for the catwalk
in cheap finery
an old woman in young woman’s shoes
faces and figures
row on row
follow one another for the feast
treadmill sustenance
all ownership stripped out
down-at-heel
glad to be so enthralled
so mesmerized
by the machinery of trade
we pick away at meagre meals
take up our meagre pay
sigh for wanting better days
sigh for missing worse
the work goes on
business as usual
for every coin the hungry find
a hundred more
go clinking at the tills
a river down a sink-hole
running away underground
out of sight
to where the seething metal
is magicked into gold
away from us
the shambling horde
hidden from our ignorant eyes
the alchemical elite
divvy up the spoils
the fruits of our labour
but there is no magic
only sleight of hand
shallow subterfuge
we are the poor who make them rich
they are the rich who made us poor
© BH 2014
Thought I'd take a different direction with this. I've spent three months in political diatribe in the run-up to the Scottish referendum. A lot of time considering issues of social justice. Now, post 18th September, I've developed a new level of cycnicism. This is what boiled over a few days ago.
Images 1-4 from Fritz Lang's Metropolis (1927). 6 and 7 from Jacques Tati's Playtime (1967).
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