Apocalypse, Please

Inane in the morning, vacuous in the afternoon.
Secret meetings, held in the open
around thin, gray cubicle walls;
the voices of the powerful rise
the spirit of the commoner falls.

Outside, on a dirty street corner
a quarter drops and lands on edge;
an old man dreams of taking match and sledge
to work and dear old boss, respectively.

During lunch, in a dirty pub:
affairs and drunken fools on stools.
She ordered salad, he ordered steak.
Elsewhere, you ordered split pea soup?
Oh, how I do hate peas;
I'll have the apocalypse, please
and medium-well
but spare my wife and child.



Blogger Josh said...

sounds like you've been spending too much time over at thoreaublog. "most men live lives of quiet desperation" (or something like that).

apocalypse = somebody kill me, please --OR-- something has to give, soon!

10:56 AM  
Blogger Inconsequential said...

Cool piece :)

Liked it lots.

4:56 PM  

Post a Comment

<< Home