And so they said
it’s routine,
a kind of sausage machine
an automated, repetitive process.
This job, this path, this event, this love
nothing, but a game
This miniature world
Oh Lord, it’s all the same!
And so I called Neil
a piece of information to steal
What’s it like for you?
What’s your kind of stew?
What kind of job would you like?
Would you go there on a bike?
He’d do it all, he’s keen
except for being a sausage machine.
Day in, day out
the life of a scout
It all starts with good morn’
a coffee, a bagel
an event or two
a cigarette with a chick called Bernadette
And then, the night settles.
Existence is nothing, but
a sausage machine
with hundreds of pedals.
Trapped, in a relationship
that’s lapsed.
Kisses and touches
come as a must.
Passion used to go first
Now it’s all simulated,
disguised and mascaraded
in talks and grand gestures
of spicing up things
when all that’s left
it’s moving numb limbs.
“I love you”
meaningless words on repeat
a hamster in a spinning wheel
dancing on a sad beat.