The Art of Living


What do you see? A reed blowing in the wind?

No, I hear their anonymity, the voice of the herd; that fades into 50 shades of grey pin-stripe suits.

Living hand-to-hoof-and-mouth. Cap in hand. Giving, taking and trading smiles for frowns, printed notes and invoice paper porn.

Supressing the expressions and emotions of the dreamers and commuters, and the lamentations of the weary. The joyless, and weathered face, to-face with the stares and glares of endless keystrokes, mouse clicks and the squeaks and squeals of worn leather soles.

Patched, polished and buffed to hide the stress of repetitive steps and strains on the minds of the good and the great; the desk jockeys, and scores of mild-mannered managers, who fall in line to the flatulent boasts of their fat-cat bosses.

We are unshackled but not unburdened, burying our travails in cheap liquor and bitter ales. Drowning the sorrows of our yesterdays’, todays’ and tomorrows’. Staring blindly through the endless sheen of screens and football fixtures.

Feasting and fiending on dry roast nuts, taking a hit and a puff of that salt and stale cooking oil. But it’s us that have expired.

Bound to social semantics, and bumbling autocrats. We pull the trigger but lack the balls and the bullets. We say to ourselves, “we are the ticks and the creepy-crawly things, the bottom-feeders, gnashing and kneeling at the heels of our masters”.

Until the day we gaze upon our own two feet and take and stand.

Then our timesheets will be as filthy rags, our pens beaten into ploughshares, and the lions will truly lie with the lambs.

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