Madman employment put us in sheep pens
with only our looks to count on
for love.

If five hours feels like forever,
then eight feels like the distended belly
of an encore,
an all-you-can-eat-buffet of love stuck
in self-control,
locked transmission,
the time-clock is additional birth control.

The ghost tethered to a treadmill
is the tremor in your caffeine-bleached eye.
The taskmaster spits to blind us all.
Us, seeing-folk, rebel,
our splinters, the protesting
of a mutinying wheel spoke.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s