Thursday, 9 April 2015

A Spokesperson Said

I am the generic spokesperson
No one needs to hear my voice
As noise is only at the end of digits
Either keys on board
The fingers moist

From pushing it back,
The weekday grease.
I  drink coffee, imitations sag
In the souring of breath
The magazines
Laid upon my lap.
I dandle the day
 Over my knees

‘We just love our shower mat’
‘We use our mop every day of the week’
Advertising anticipates the trap
The habit
Between the sleep.

I grate, I  glean
From my right side
The bits that you would like to see
Formatted on a single page
The bits of type
Between white teeth

Have I said enough
Have  I got it right
To satisfy those damp desires
I place my hand on the enter key
And crack your mind through
 Pages, wires

Once it may have been a face
A smile, the human scent
Has become packaged by a layer
The monologue
The mind for rent.

Shall I slobber
On the Frisbee
Of your thoughts
Like an animal in afternoons
When I am too tired to hover, scan
With the cursors which
Become the hand
 I now abuse.

Who ever knew a sadistic streak
Lay behind the silent job
Telling people what they want hear

Like to the blind, that they are seeing God.