Factory Fodder
Although the bright sun touches my skin
I cannot express myself
I am a shit-kicker filled up
A feeling I can't shake - even if I won lotto.
My starvation for music and books - and
When you feel your tired bones
When you know it's not your body
Poverty Of A Third World Child On TV
Something told me
Sometimes you came to my aid begrudgingly
But she didn't die -
I stuck around as an embarrassment to your society
The worst thing
Thank god, I have no children.
There was an add for the salvos
You could tell they had been poor for a long time,
Anyway, she couldn't feed her kids
They were bone-thin, pyjama dressed, and
Her face had so much misery in it
Thank god I am childless -
Charity begins at home -
and the tiny paper flowers are shivering
all around me, all over the world -
my insides feel like twisted up industrial materials,
and when they are removed I will be empty.
My mind is dull from junk food
and lack of education
with industrial waste.
I am missing out on something
but I don't know what else there is.
Could money make a difference to the life I've had?
My mouth watering for paper and coloured paints,
I paint my portrait with blood and sweat.
my far off dreams of travel are over
Life means nothing to me.
being ground down into chalk.
that is dying but your heart.
I should be dead already,
but I insisted on surviving -
crying in broad daylight
where you could see me.
At other times you thought it best to ignore me
Harden up or you won't last (you hoped, you said).
she just kept crying out the poverty
of a third world child on TV.
Just to give their consciences a little tug, now and then.
is when you can't
feed your dogs,
or do your art.
where a worn out mother looked down
at her kids going hungry at the dinner table.
but its harder around christmas.
with big eyes and pale grey faces sunken in.
in some ways they looked as old as her -
that mother who looked straight into the camera.
that it cracked like a mirror
shattered onto the lino.
my dogs will forgive me.
for those that live in one.
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