We walk home forty winks spinning
’round our heads like birds in winter.
Our visions scattered / our eyes
orbs fractured by glaring light.
Every night we face our furtive patrons
subsisting on an inversed timezone.
We pour ourselves over idiotic queries
crossing underground optical fibers.
Constantly we push the mute button
to breathe out our reticent cusses.
The customer is always right: the usual dictum:
right even with their false impressions.
Our stomachs mumble at late night lunches
spoiled by pizza / coffee / instant noodles.
We suckle our teeth on cigarette breaks
and relish rations of raffled gift certs.
Dehydrated from spasmic scream our bodies
crave the solace of our squashy comforters
to reach heaven in the pleasure of dreams
as slaves dream of freedom in their sleep.
Sooner or later we are bent for automation
as we mouth spiels like talking wind-up dolls.
As this is what this tyrant wanted: that we
spew money like a 24-hour teller machine.
The lady chief who peddles us prostitutes
to penny-pinching predators and leviathans
drafts more of us–juvenile hired hands–
to mechanized sweatshops and assembly lines.
Until we bring it to a halt. And to end her
vanity we hurl our maces at the beastette.