A Generalisation of Demographics

Tomorrow is just another step
On a platform. Train coffee
Weeps down chequered seats
Last centuries style
Catch a glimpse of a grey hair
Sprouting through despite
The cuts I’ve made each day
A book hangs loosely
From my other hand
I’m reading about demography
Trying to understand why punching
People who smile is assault
But siphoning off money is encouraged
I wash my hands again
In that dirty sink
Blood red, veins dark blue
Losing is a learning curve
Hanging vertically from a tall tree
Drying out till the resolve
To remain active withers
In the light breeze

A Generalisation of Demographics

Biohazard

It’s hard to write poems
Like you’re a voice for
A generation of artists
Suffering in silence
Apathetic about stagnant
Careers in thrift managing
To exist day-to-day
Without ending it.
Glumly, I flick through pages
Of questionable merit
Every job needs a portfolio
Nobody uses filters to cut
Shit included to pad it out
Give it a noticeable weight
A polished golden biohazard
Charged at the industry rate

Biohazard

New Leaf

I snapped a twig
In a leafy park suburb
Gates closed in
I was circling for a
Way out of this
Repetition.
I tread carefully
But still hack at
The wooden
Fences among
Springs and babbling
Brooks chattering
Constituent parts
Flowing through
Indiscriminately.
They dried out
The other side
Charging for the
Right to poor water
Ownership is king
I don’t know
How to turn it into
A new leaf

New Leaf

Uncome

Somewhere sits an old conversation
A passage, poetic, muscle reflex
A sadness. My day-to-day devoid
Of wistful thinking
Yet, here; new friends
I have respawned in places
I’d never heard of
Know inner city streets
Better than some
Of these people
I share my food and wine
We talk about our differences
When did I become
So one-dimensional?
Nostalgic for that bond
I had with brothers and sisters
A pack strewn across the land
By careers and economics
Not quite as snugly fitting back in
When the chilly breeze
Catches the back of my skin
Hairs standing up
I am uncomfortable
With everything

Uncome

Geld

It shapes how I sit
My posture hunched
No cushions
To press upon
My arched back
Neck lurched forwards
Drooping shoulders
Resigned to thinking
Less about active
Engagement soapbox
More about soapbox
Entertainment anger
I could always do better
Until the drool on my
Chin is mopped away
The kernel of an idea
Left in the plate
I can barely see
Through these rims
I used to understand
How to work things

Geld