Steve Pearson Poetry

You start with
a place upon the driven isle
fingers finally feeling
paltry purchase.
The machine
starts to do for you
even as it sees through you
as you fall
for its foolish charms,
for the
cultured dreams
of success.
Feel the machine
begin to throb beneath you,
instil belief to
and ride
and ride
feeling the hours roaring,
days dawning like
an annual morning,
a time warning
the machine whirring,
thinking you’re beginning
to get there
it stops,
and you find
you’re sitting at
the same place,
different fucking chair.

View original post

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s