Tired

I’m tired of all the tedium,

the mediocre unctuous glum

of images fed through word-machines

to the barely serviced slum.

I’m tired of vapid word fornicators standing, 

promoting all that they have sold me

tired of their feckless white lieutenants

reminding me of what they have just told me.

I’m tired of all the things on sale 

and the things that I don’t need

tired of sickly aspiration, 

masquerading not as greed.

I’m tired of being preached at, 

when it’s nothing more than cant

tired of finding notes on corners 

left by those who merely rant.

I’m tired of suits in idle conquest 

jetting off to find a jaunt

while the rest of us, through gimlet eyes, 

look on in fleshly gaunt.

I’m tired of seeing smirking lips, 

to remind me how I feel

tired like tightly watered patrons

betting on the latest steal.

I’m tired of facing mornings, 

stretched to tarry in my mind

tired of truth that lingers long on screens 

when they’ve left the dirt behind.

I’m tired of sickly monologues, 

from artists of the form

I’m tired of being busy dying, 

when I could be busy being born.

I’m tired of ruthless calculations,

measured on blackboards in a room

tired of picked on cleaners, laundrymen

given nothing but a broom.

I’m tired of presentations, 

of a dried up, pickled state

I’m tired of hyper-tensive clauses

with no reason for being late.

I’m tired of secret meetings,

held so no-one can attest

so the dragged away confessor 

can have nothing to confess.

I’m tired of lining up in drag,

on the dark side of the street

while my friend, the executioner

makes his subtle dark retreat.

I’m tired of all the goodness,

that the fool in charge thinks up

while the rest of us are left out back, 

to drink from his leaking cup.

I’m tired of the faux pretension,

that these people really care,

as they congregate their eyebrows

and insult us with their stare.

I’m tired of salt afflictions,

of being told we’ll have to wait

that heaven’s just ahead,

and if we look we’ll see the gate.

I’m tired of the oiled up sales pitch,

of the toady rise and burp

I’m tired too much to notice

that there’s nothing to usurp.

I’m tired of speak easy mannequins

in supercilious dress

I’m tired of their slide rule presumptions

that we must clean up their mess.

I’m tired of wastrels penning thoughts,

from their numb slumgullion brain

I’m tired of waiting for their words,

to flush their bilge down through my drain.

I’m tired of being roused to write,

but write these words I will

while these perpetrators stay alive,

or until I’ve had my fill.

© copyright – Stephen Newman 2021