John Porter

My eyes

to still be here,
on waking I am greeted by
the silver logo of the company
as my eyes boot up.

I have, I admit, papered over the
branding on the cereals,
kerbing the invites
to merge my journey
with that of a dry toasted
toe nail of corn.

There is a click lid resistance
and any blinking trickled into
an image feed, with a following
of ten million masturbaters,
but that is ok they paid for my eyes
free at point of use
pointing to choices
glance right to order, left to
gift wrap.

The thoughtverts did start to
grate so, just for a while
I wanted to unplug, and tensed the link
between chip and vein.
A stern message flashed up,
and doors locked,
no sirens allowed for the self fired pain,
if you tamper with stock
kindly supplied by the company.

John Porter © 2015


The tent flaps clatter in the warm wind
coming in from the red horizon and inside
I tend to the sleeping. Not many of us are still awake in the
rolling cites moving on as the waters come. The sleepers are laid
out in rows, numbered, labelled, I change the drips
twice a day, let the nappies go until the stench gets me.
I have not yet yawned, but do not resent the
sleepers, let them drift on till the day their snores
turn to gasps, the young ones can repay me in the pot,
the old I'll cast off into the waves
to move, tumble and dance down, and away.

John Porter © 2015

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