How many of us
are going to slip out of here
like oily eggs onto breakfast plate
without a whimper,
or if a groan,
then a groan that’s mute
against the tin dry crash
of must-see series, a whole life
(the only one)
shown stark and simple, naked —
nothing more
than a feverish stockpile of subscriptions,
as if their clockwork comfort
could ward off all that dark.

The throat collapses
on itself like a hope-scraped tunnel
out of jail —
slick, slimy, reptilian survival
instincts flick forked tongue, grumble
to action like pack-mule whipped,
consciousness aware, inert
in sleep, in death, in life
the message is the same
wake up
wake up
WAKE UP

 

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