Why Would You Want to be Old?
My days are numbered I know that well
it is why I’m stuck here in this living hell
the biscuits stale, the tinkle of tea
and the nurses told not to bother with me
The Truck
The truck stops, week in, out, inconvenient in the striving street
regular, if payment is required
to collect the stock piles of baby puke and waste convenience
and plastic worn deliveries, slit and thrown
We’re Not to Blame
It’s not our fault, we’re not to blame
we’re just trying to maintain our freedom
we mine our dark materials, this is not a game
because there are other poor people who need ‘em
Why Do I Do It?
I don’t do it for you , so your thoughts can rest easy
as you nod in your pleasant agreement
while you sip on your drink, peculiar and queasy
at my anticipated long due achievement
If Not This, Then What?
It’s not the Masses, not the torments, not the nightmares of our longing
Not the grasslands, not the homelands, not the roads to our belonging
Not the mortgage, not the storage where our things are kept for later
Not the governed, not the owners, not a Priest to set us straighter