Jobs Friends

Yeah, the poem thing is getting a bit obsessive at the moment...

billboards
tell you what
to do
who to be
and what to eat
Television
tells you how to live
sitting with you
in the lounge each night
like one
of Jobs friends
She tells you your nothing
and yet
your loins boil for her
the whole thing is fucked
and you think that no one understands?
you think your a unique
lonely poet in a city of automatons?
No.
the poet lives next door
in the eyes of an old man
dying of cancer
the artist is pruning her roses
shes shuffling to the gate
to see if theres any mail
the painter is on the porch
smoking a cigarette
thinking of her