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