IF FIVE HOURS FEEL LIKE FOREVER

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.

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