We’re supposed to open the air vent,
cement ourselves to the oxygen supply?
and pray tell me why?
I want to float in the endless avenue of an infinite space
live in the vacuum with enough room to manoeuvre.
But we’ve been conditioned to breathe and think it’s an automatic reflex,
an impulse they say.
Sour thoughts to start and my day starts this way,
they’re sucking the life from me
and keeping me in poverty
in the underground sea we all drown together
tethered to a millstone
ground into bonemeal
fed to the slaughter
when those rivers of Babylon run dry they’ll piss on the sand,
landed gentry they may be
but no touching the forelock for me,
just leaving somewhere which is just about anywhere and everything I am,
sticking to a plan which is as yet unclear
holding on for dear life even though life is cheap and
somewhere is just where I weep.
© 2016, John Smallshaw.