Cubicle Farm

Photo by on

Rattling keyboards flickering screens
jolly fingers race against ageing
programmed dialogues play in rotation
dark-suited mannequins wear smile like skin

Monday morning “how’s the weekend?”
Friday afternoon “plan for next week?”
the rest on the weather and the kids
alas, god knows if they exist!

Wasted youth tattered dreams
eight hours a day five days a week
on the cubicle farm we sow the seeds
of a future we’ll be wealthy and free
keep the heads down and mouths shut
only hard work deserves to speak

After years of harvest in vain
until then we discover the snakes
steal the apples, poison the farmers
put on new skin every morning
like a newborn with no memories
of lies, bullshit, and infliction

Losers live as extensions —
old selves, old memories, an old belief:
honesty is the best policy
a textbook-turned-banality
a fiction, a joke, a comedy!