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