The One Percent

There’s a vacuum being created

sucking in our souls,

a space where we suffocate,

where all hope evaporates

at the whim of the one percent

 

who live up in the clouds, dedicated

to digging us deep dark holes

where we toil for scraps, us poor ingrates,

watch as our future desiccates

for the good of the one percent.

 

One day they’ll be nothing left,

no-one to hear as the bell tolls

just the stench of slavery, of hate,

of a burning rage at a negligent State;

the tools of the one percent.

 

 

This was stimulated by Jaqcues Peretti’s documentary – The Super-rich and Us.

 

They Talk Bollocks

Another Poem

They Talk Bollocks

They talk bollocks, don’t they?
Management consultants, bureaucrats,
politicians, and corporate clowns

Why do they stuff around so,
obsessively create work,
live in fear of idleness?

This disease, productivity,
insidious, without conscience,
thrives in these, the insecure,

stealing time from unfocused
robots, desperate to please
some higher power, some God.

Why don’t they ask, ‘Why?’
Try to understand their lives,
see this subtle slavery.

And when they’re dying, what then?
Will they feel a warm glow inside,
satisfied with work ,work, work?

Or will they feel the knife twist,
gasp for a reprieve – more life,
rue wasting their precious time

sitting in grey offices,
taking work home with them,
prioritising away

opportunities of joy.

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