Carousel

[pk.]

I wake to ride the carousel again.
Before work I drop into my mother's house (Mcdonalds)
I can stop in there, get fed, take a shit
And read the newspaper (soon they will learn how to wipe my ass and mouth too)

I'm now "ready" to sit
Sequestered in my cubicle
And stare at the glowing monitor,
Which is really just the modern abyss.

My fingers communicate with plastic
And metaphysically, or rather, electronically
My restricted language, not of my own,
Gets transferred to an equally incompetant person.

I'm grateful progress
Has changed some things:
Whips to verbal abuse
Death with the loss of work.

However I'd like to see exactly
What it is I'm building;
(Even the slaves of Egypt got that satisfaction.)

When I get home, spent
My eyes and back in pain,
I start to feel sick from the constant,
Unrelenting, restlessness
Of human movement.

I want to get off this carousel

But there is no operator.

 

[Raz]

I'd like to see exactly
What it is I'm building;
(Even the slaves of Egypt got that satisfaction.)

You show really good insight with your writing, this gets across the angsty emptiness that modern life can bring without making a cliche out of it. I dig it!