Hugo Docking

Organic Man

Cashier. Socialite.
Weary with the weight of words and life
                                     Doesn’t quite fit with his
   Expectations.

 

Eyes grown impolite.
A glazed monotone man in an electric box
Of metal and wires and plastic, bags
Under his eyes from mind-wandering nights of
Better places.

 

He dreams of freedom to roam
To run away from the mind-eroding ‘how was your day?’
Day-to-day drool of making sure the woman with the fancy car
And the swimming pool only used when the
Grandkids come round for two weeks in august
Gets her 50p off for buying two carrot cakes instead of just the one
And insists it must be something he’s done to rip her off
The money grabbing son of a gun behind the till.

 

To escape the abuse and the same after same he
Crawls inside, ponders time and fate,
And wanders if things would have been the same
If his life had gone a different way,
And he’d got a different job, in a different town,

Made of different stone.

Probably.

 

Wherever he went would be a version of the same
The same picture with a different frame
And no matter how hard he could try to keep things fresh
He knew that society would never fail to
Bore him.

 

To get away from the minimum wage, and

Live in a cave, that’s real, and solid,

 

And fire-lit snug, and live off the earth,

 

 

And look up at the stars every night, would be

 

 

 

Bliss.  

 

No more

Dead-in-the-eye fake smiles.

No more

Charging the battery with soul reserves.

No more

Buzzing cell of electronic life.

 

 

Organic man. At peace.

 

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