deepundergroundpoetry.com
How to fix burnout
some bitch with a clipboard
sits in front of me
rattling a pencil between her teeth
saying words like posture
and eye contact
of which I don’t like fucking either
and she’s making notes
on my history, the way my life
has gone down the proverbial shitter
how my spine bent up like a pretzel
months ago as wild birds
pecked at the remains
her face slapping me with a wound:
“you’re here, but you don’t look happy”
… of course I don’t look fucking happy, Susan
of course I’m not happy to be sitting here
in an airless sweatbox while you doodle
my name in thick, red pen
or to sit in front of that crusty fucking
yucca plant that needs a penknife
to cut out the death
I can’t even tell you how joyed I am
to watch your lipstick stain your mug
15 times in a row smearing Maybelline
into caffeine in some post-modernist
Bob Ross type shit that paints a picture
of this office
this soulless cube
this graveyard of post-it notes and pens
please do continue to screw my humanity
to the mother fucking desk
hammer my hands to a phone receiver
set Pret-A-Manger up for me on speed dial
for a quid’s worth of sandwich
at a tenner’s worth of price tag
as some mark of ‘I made it’
that I couldn’t give two shits about
maybe look at my arms windmilling water
whenever I get the chance
how ecstatically enthralled I am to shut
the damn door and sofa-rot beneath yarn
or how my jaw explodes into
a galaxy of stars whenever his voice
blankets my dead-ass day
maybe find me in tea, and poetry
and big books because I cannot lie
find me in moments
and fury
and dreams
but never tell me I’m not happy
because my colour of world
isn’t the same fucking beige
as yours.
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