Tuesday 1 December 2015

an eighty sixth new poem ... 'fully automated luxury communism'

When the machines
Take over and demean
My work, force me
To shirk away
From a
Hard day’s labour,
I’ll wager I won’t
Waste in my lofas,
Glue-gunned to the sofa;
Instead I’ll garden and
Paint, run around the
Block ‘til I faint,
Make scones, bake
Cakes, breed Stick-
Insects on my
Tea breaks, learn
French, then bench
Press the weight of
The world, two fingers
Up at Atlas.