There's no point in talking to the machine,
it already has what it wants (probably more)
as you shuffle towards guillotine blades of glass
whilst slug-skinned men watch you through cameras
and unrelenting algorithms contemplate your brands.
Faces more built than sculpted from puffs of acrid smoke
shield themselves under profane, polycotton shrouds;
hiding from fluorescent figments of the imagination
as their train tunnel eyes unmake the truths
concocted by their slang-drenched bluster.
Push bar to open: the shadows rush in to cling
to the edges of where light is enthroned amongst
all the banter and merrymaking which merely
echoes a long forgotten curse which turned every,
single word you said into a prelude of the end.
Ripping your memory from my pillows is like
a suicide jumper never hitting the ground;
that fraction of a second extended into perpetuity
where consequence and cause are exactly the same
and all I have to remember are things I want to forget.