After doing the post on “The Process”, I thought that it might be a good idea to do some “instant poetry”, that is; first draft, quickly written, unedited, raw, punk rock poetry. Free from refinement, but requiring slightly more thought than normal. So not merely a thought dump, but an exercise in honing the first draft so that one gets the most out of the first go.
Introduced to each other by way of nine,
Forming an orderly line in a square box room
totally ambivalent to the new fangled surroundings.
We congregate in a glass maze,
mirrored windows reflecting the world back on itself,
as if somehow saying:
“It was your need, your greed that created us.”
Inside the morass are eight floors of doom,
each one filled with the scent of dread
that accompanies those into work,
fully aware of the fact this is all
they might amount to in life.
The pantheon of academic debt
is a trap for those inside, the walls screaming:
“Look at us! You needed us on the outside
and we’ve taken you back, charged you,
then trapped you from within.”
Don’t let the bright lights fool you.
These glass walls, open plan workspaces,
olive green couches, vending machine glories,
white tables and floors, plastic cutlery,
coffee machines, microwaves and toasters,
aren’t simply the prize you work for
but tools of pacification to soothe a fractured soul.
No, this place won’t make history.
Even in your darkest hour it’s a simple hell,
a prison of your own making.
(a place in which you travel to road raging,
engage in floor pacing, it’s true meaning
This financial security equals capitulation
to a place in society which is probably
eventually (in the end) just a fabrication.