His skin hangs in a closet.
His fingers tap all day.
His lungs are in downsizing.
His voice repeats
His eyes are out in space
watching football or the News.
His heart works as a metronome,
to make the money it must have
to pump his blood around the world.
His brain is mined out on the net.
His bones make up the planetís cage.
His muscles only work at home.
And all he sees of himself
is what he earns: the end product
of his labour
and further away, not knowing if
he is doing right or wrong.
He never acts as one.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Tristan Moss would be
pleased to hear them.