A shame a blame a guilt.

On the precarious lines we tread

for the vacuous lives we’ve led

with coins we feed the guilts we labour under.

The sparkly thoughts that magpies scrabble after

and laughters cure for all the anodynes in pills and wines

Our eyes distractions easily caught the weakness of our petty thoughts.

We call the pot the weed the kettle black and so

deeds in furs are measured wrong and there the throng

have right to pelt you with their eggs.

The dregs on pavements spit and in back allies souls are slit like purses.

Silks and leathers empty save for a plastic meal.

But for a thought not fit tip top to steal.

The secret word on broaches close to hearts we carry, none will see.

The tapping on the walled machine.

As useless as the broken shoe on a rainy day.

Dispenser drug machines, we use the wall to pay

there is no need for paper lest you hide the taxable commissions

as expected by the citizen, on so we all agree.

The money in the malls has gone and cashing in means getting on aboard

a train of thought that seems to make a sense in retrospect.

As intellectuals debate the day to day and days like none has ever lived before.

Constellations forming characters with cloud obscuring sanity and vanities.

Humanity has tasted not the sweetness of its poison.

Believing in the gated minds the keepers of a purpose.

Feeders forcing fatness down a spiritual gullet.

In plumpness ripe the prefect pluck to pot

a joint for scalding hair from flesh till baby smooth.

Sense is separated from meat beneath a moving corpse

and androids walk and talk and tell their woes for what is lacking.

Deliveries of parcels spill the diesel into choking atmospheres.

A snaking water canopy the ancient forests stolen trees in chains are hauled

across the mothers skin in mirrors sitting plucking, peeling, preening,

pulling tucking back a year of “adverinfo” product sifting.

The glaring LED saved energy directs a stream of blinding verbs,

and reality is there to be dressed up in just by wanting.

On a line no sign rejects a payment and all notices ignore when checkouts close.

The hours four and twenty never ending ever spending.

Goods, a box of packaging, the choking island swirling in a

sea so far a way form blame. Shamefacedness’s berried

Kopf in sand with arse in air and not a care for seeing not

the micro pearl that strangles sex out of Poseidon.

The poisoning of sea and earth and air, there will be none here.

In a “wordly” thought out world where worries wane

with every swipe the satisfactions therapy has taken

us so far from us and taken something from us all.

(We shame our tragedies with blame

and shame the blame with guilt.

It is time to change.)