Was it for this?

Pale light shadows our thoughts,
Whizzing from here to there and nowhere,
No maps to hand, we wander into plastic lives
Behind screens and magazine gloss.

Time ceases. To rush and crackle,
It surges all around but never forward,
Tomorrow never comes, strangled dead
By Today’s presents

Which we hoard. What dreams may come?
But those we are taught by masked men,
Branding our imaginations, until colours drain grey
and hope is but a click away.

Was it for this we are born?
Neat streets and neon lights
And shops selling our souls for gated fence.
Nothing to do but laugh or cry
‘Cos tomorrow we all gonna die’.

Why

Why do they put a sell by date on sour cream?

Time

Time slips by easily from watch to eye,
We wear manicled fetish around swollen wrist,
Where time does no longer dance the quick, quick slow,
But is charted, measured and dissected.

9 to 5 and 7tilleleven, in evening times
of half an hour we watch those east end lives,
until we retire tired for 8 maybe ten hour hands to tick,
and tock, deadly dark flouresently lit.

Until alarmed majors bark orders for a new day,
Big ben is not my friend but my jailor.