It tells you how to dress yourself and which
Fashionably unfashionable hairstyle you should get,
It even determines the way you think and smell and
How you like your coffee with your supermarket lunch.
It makes you feel guilty for being surrounded
By people you hate in a trendy bar and
For not doing or saying what you want
But just what everyone else expects.
It turns the artexed ceiling into a screen
Rather than the door of an iron maiden,
Across which your regrets side-scroll in slow-mo
Instead of flashing in crimson before your eyes.
It doesn’t tell you how to ignore your name badge
Or that you’re not the man you should have been,
And it doesn’t tell you that you’re not just numb
But that there’s nothing for you to feel.