Thursday, November 19, 2015


on a six AM
on the way to work is
when life hits you
and makes you
write the first lines
of a useless
ugly little poem
on your
ugly little smartphone
for anyone to read
or no one to read...
probably never

stuck in the
concrete beauty of
brutalist pillars
of modern bureaucratic
(as she puts it)
you destress your
already devalued self
in the dipshit dishpit of
a low profit restaurant
in the middle of
a junkyard

customers can go to hell
for you get paid
too little to give
more than half a shit
and with that little money
you do get paid,
feeding the egos
of the profs and
the deans and
the presidents
of those not-for-profit
education shops

you are just a simple
byproduct of a societal
experiment for
the sustainability
of our species…
a machine coming
out of a bigger machine
making machines
to produce the shit
that the society makes
the society believe it

you are a
simple glass in a
one of
countless others
needed for the survival
of the restaurant
only until
a customer or
a waitress
shatters you on the floor…

and once you go mad
once your inner insanity
the man or woman alive
comes out,
there is no worth
in you
for the restaurant..
you are human waste
destined to the gutters
even picking up the
shattered pieces
is only annoying
work for someone

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