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.