workplace modern world (Remove filter)
The Screen
Words flicker on the screen blocking out our dreams
They want more and more not nine hours but twenty spinning the clock till we crawl on the floor
Words decay in front of our of eyes a meaningless babble cross referenced and died
Then they lift our dying limbs to type a few more
Then leave our rotting carcass by the door
Monday 3rd December 2018 8:49 pm
Recent Comments
Mike McPeek on Fallen Leaf
3 hours ago
Graham Sherwood on The Forgotten
4 hours ago
Rolph David on Sonnet: Imigh Hotovely, Imigh Smál Damnaithe! Imigh is Póg mo Thóin! [Out Hotovely, Out Damned Spot! Out and Kiss my Arse!]
5 hours ago
Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh on His Majesty’s Stay Out of Hell Cards: “Divine Right” and “Convention”
6 hours ago
Hélène on Elementary
6 hours ago
Rolph David on Spinocracy – The Art of the Fall*
6 hours ago
Rolph David on Spinocracy – The Art of the Fall*
6 hours ago
Tim Daly on Prayer for the Little Ones
7 hours ago
Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh on Prayer for the Little Ones
7 hours ago
Stephen Gospage on Prayer for the Little Ones
8 hours ago