What do we do when we wake to the clichés
Of earning and eating and fucking and sleeping
And the impasse we reach is Hamlet’s dilemma:
Plod on, or retire? Is awareness worth keeping?
Some sit through the seasons of the flickering idol -
Rhythmic patter of buttons on remotes smeared in grime.
Grazing on insipid loops of dyed media mucous;
Pacified, they swallow and regurgitate the slime.
Some dive into arms of the cretinously faithful.
The long sleeves of religion give a soothing caress,
Gently throttling the mind, squeezing slow till they’re numb
And removing the questions, or rogue thoughts to express.
And what’s left after chanting and sitting for hours,
Sniffing roomfuls of incense, eyes in mystic expressions?
Hold out for the light? Or start wearing Armani,
To scale heights of prestige and amass vaults of possessions?
Our final escape is the Human Condition.
Self-obsession devours our awareness; all we see
Are reflections of self. Sleepwalking through life,
We hum quietly along with the dull drone of, "Meeee… "