The knock knock buggy came to mow me down

Loud and clattering it came up proud

Big old wheels made of stone

Spiky chariot carved from bone

It came around the corner at a rapid pace

There was never any mention of a race

Blows from the up left down and right

Like a rabid dog putting up a fight

No sound of a bell or sight of a ring

Fair game here was not a thing

Knock knock and crick and crack

Smack on the concrete tippty tap

Out on the road I was all but a mush

The buggy was gone, it left in a rush

Squeaming and shaking it did take a while

But when I got up it was in quite a style

For my legs got all stretched so I stood a bit taller

And my patchwork of scars made a thick coat of armor

My eyes were stamped open a little bit wider

And the gaps in my head made me a little less blinder

Feelings what are they?

Who wants em anyway?

I cut out me heart

An flogged it for a jam tart

Gave Jack a run for his money

He told me it were honey

I said get to fuck

That's jam I know it, I'm a cook

It were sweet for a while

Short crusted it in style

I once would'a cried

Now crumbs fall out me side

No more emotions

Doughy delight, saved from the commotions

A short lived pleasure

The life of a tart is not long to measure

And then its gone

Back to square one

Whats next?

A bloody cherry bakewell

Thats what

Throat aches, scrubbing this empty home

Avoiding thoughts of been alone

Dirty sheets and broken glass

Scattered fractions of the past

Lead weight heavy in a mortal coil

Pack up my bags, get rid of the foil

Bitter taste of broken dreams

Emotions bursting at the seams

Cutting deep beneath elastic flesh

Sweet romance has died a death

Boaring, searing beneath the core

Plates in the cupboard, shut that door

Organs squeezing, tightly clenched

Serrated tissue, some hearts been wrenched

Open the curtains and let it breathe

Cleanings over, it’s time to leave

I think its scary that in the past few years we have all so quickly adapted to this artificial simulation of reality. The Big Brother eye has entered or homes, we carry it around in our pocket, we sleep with it next to our beds. We volunteer personal information not just to our “friends” but to the powers above. This is a form of control. We start to view each other based upon the image presented through our “profile” our “status”, is this really us? No it is an edited version of ourselves put forth before the pixilated court room. We are not just a statistic. People sit in bars, buses, cafes, parks hooked on their screens rather than actually talking to each other. Getting positive feedback in the form of a “like” releases a hit of dopamine as we feel validated and acknowledged, but does this actually compare to a deeper feeling of connectedness? It becomes addictive, how much time is spent scrolling through the news feed? How about spending time seeing peoples faces rather than screens? How about hearing people’s news through spoken words? There are positive aspects like seeing the faces of those we love and sharing creative work and news but there are other ways. Hope to see you soon in the real world.

Hot, sticky glue on cellophane packaging. This label slapped on down the chain production line. Bars give telling information. DNA suspended in strands on wrinkled plastic sheeting. A serial number.

Decode me please.

This will take an expert, the type that would wear a sharp suit and a tight tie, pulled up promptly to the top button. No creases, taken from a box, neatly packaged by rough hands that are never seen. The streams of data pour down the screen, he reads like a serpent deciphering snake tongue. And what does it say I ask?

Best before 23rd September 2088.

Organic produce.

Ingredients: Life, love, pain, happiness, fear, joy, belief, excitement, logic, reason, doubt, strength, talent, clarity, confusion, beauty, distortion, neutrons, protons, electrons, space, matter, sharp edges, soft curves.

Warning: Prone out bursts of anxiety.

Handle with care.