Hoardings

Where hope is lost

Hoardings are found –

This is why we

Tear them to ground.

The Shop

Ripped clean out and held so high,
Beating still yet stunting life;
The gaze of strangers no longer met –
In looking away, I hope to forget.

Units of time distort with rage,
Dragging in shifts of minimum wage:
I kill moments with wasting ploys,
Biting my tongue without a choice.

Interest gleaned from silly remarks –
Old women’s prayers, scumbags’ barks:
Any distraction from the intrigues
And the battles of petty colleagues.

I sweat and bleed for those with reason,
Colloquial logic a tragic treason –
They embrace me like an only son,
Though I am not the only one:
Still I fail to see my life pass by,
My stagnation such I cannot cry.

And I struggle in vain to pass the time,
Yet mourn its memory never mine.

Thieves lord it over in drunken jest
Within antipodes they believe are best:
They steal two bottles of cheapest wine,
Ceasing outside their committed crime.

I give chase and reclaim our stock,
Displaying guile, to the thieves’ shock;
Yet I’d hoped it would end right there –
On the cold, dead street without a care;

Without a care because of cares scanty:
Nama’s enema leaving us empty.
The world still spins but Clongriffin does not,
Because in the end we are all forgot.

I sweat and bleed for those with reason,
Colloquial logic a tragic treason –
They embrace me like an only son,
Though I am not the only one:
Still I fail to see my life pass by,
My stagnation such I cannot cry.

And I struggle in vain to pass the time,
Yet mourn its memory never mine.