Stop.
I’m not part of this.
I’ll be leaving now.
I don’t understand
How none of you
See what’s going on.
A herd following
Whoever they think
They should be,
Experts non experts.
Stop, now.
It doesn’t have to be this way
There are so many
Other beautiful
Things to be done
Instead of being
Ordinary and
Following.
So ordinary.
All of them the same.
Living in lifeless boxes,
Doing the same things
In unison, laughing at
The same awful things,
Talking about nothing,
Hating the same people,
Afraid of everything,
Driving the same loud
Metal machines,
Not an original thought
In the bunch, a terrible
Gathering of mediocrity
Fancying itself great.
I don’t know about
your mask, what that
says about you,
the angry multiplicity
of colonized voices that
try to force you in
a working corner, I don’t
even know about my
own oppressor mask,
how it looks, how often
I use it.
They find comfort in their familiar group,
laughing at customary jokes
told by the typical, uninteresting comic.
They are safe and secure
in their clique of spindly bodies,
marred by unkempt clothing and disheveled hair.
Nothing upsets this party –
so long as everything stays the same.
More at http://wovenstanzas.blogspot.com/.
Talking about sultriness of weather casually
And exchanging a few worried glances
Over yesterday’s stale news
Over a cup of tea, words were expressed between you and me
in a whimpering tone
To articulate the everyday violences of life
How when evening descends
Angst is perfectly brushed aside by parroted words of routinised life
What do you want to eat for dinner?
The wife asks to the man of the house
In a whirlpool of raging questions, small talk comes to the rescue to
Extinguish the political self of an individual
How one feels at home living under one uniform voice
Propaganda of small talk is immense, as immense as pure despair
whose threat is throttled every night in the name of sanitised life.
Imperceptible source
of crumbs let loose,
manna from heaven-
gift or poison-
summoning noisome crowds:
her miracle message
a chemical crossroad
to life sustaining.
“Bounty!”, the workers say:
what there is, is
all there is-
oblivious-
they cannot perceive
the origin
conceived with an antenna’s
blind touch.
But do the mates
cherish after their
improbable rapture
with a royal captor,
the gods who nourished them
before they perish?
Returning home, the small town seems even smaller,
where she is further misunderstood,
having never really been deemed necessary
She’d outgrown their staid mindsets,
where tradition and conformity reign
So, she continues on, like a drifter,
as her former home melts into the sunset,
of a cracked rearview mirror.