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Mental Slavery

 

Mental Slavery

 

I’ve gotta get high man

Reality is fuckin fucked

My poetry has become staid

“Stay!”

“Fetch!”

“Good dog”

I’ve forgotten how to play

To stop saying something, but how?

The supermarket was better today

I didn’t resist existence

Yunno peace time

Sorry guys it’s been too long since I got laid

Coz I stopped playing

I got sent back to high school for the second time

In my 40s & 50s

& it wasn’t 21 Jump Street

I had to wear a chastity belt all those years

To prove I’m not a paedophile

A continuous police check updated weekly

I guess we've all come to accept surveillance capitalism

Like it's no big deal

To be presumed guilty

I was a good little eunuch

& took my daily floggings

Now I’m old

& it gets harder & harder to rebel

When you’ve been institutionalised so many times

& were forced against your will

To be a weapon of the institutions

There are fewer & fewer rebellious options now

The corporate-state is policing not only our bodies

But our minds

& people willingly collaborate

& dob in anyone different to the authorities

Like they want to be mental slaves

Plus my frontal lobe is formed

& my aging bones are brittle

Makes you more risk averse

The most radical thing you can do is scream

But that’s less fun when you’re alone

& everyone’s on their headphones

See: serious cunt

Needs to lighten up

In this war ravaged world

The cost of living rising

The global housing crisis

A planet steadily dying

& leaders that don’t give a damn

The only rebellion left is a kind of puritanical one

Yunno like destroy a beautiful painting

I don’t hear nobody laughing on the street

Unless rarely on their phones

& so it’s an angry world

All I want is some shits & giggles

But my face is frozen as if too much botox

Of course it’s no doubt my mental illness

& really I should be happy

Living alone in a one room cell

& rather than everyone banding together & saying let’s rebel it’s unbearable

They try & relativise it

& say be thankful that you’re not in the Congo

Know your place dog

Sure I’m thankful to be alive

& no doubt this mood will pass

But I don’t want to live in this box anymore

While millions are racing to get in

We’ll be in a box when all this is over

Incinerated into dust

As I say

I’ve gotta get high man

Reality is fuckin fucked

My poetry has become staid

“Stay!”

“Fetch!”

“Good dog”

 

 

Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2025.

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