The kind that still says chavs wear slapbacks
The kind that says people don’t fuck with the lights on
Well do they?
Not much of a view from Debenhams help line
A broken swivel chair in a cream cubicle
Just the one window on to Head Street
Where all the people look like ants
Devoid of connectivity
Again as far as she could know
No look in for the mortal coil

A futile attempt to keep poll position
From a world dammed to open it’s chest
Those cards don’t stay hidden for long
Nothing to show, something to hide
So she starts to feel a lag coming on
In expression and comprehension
Why can’t they communicate like before
A note’s off, a puzzle piece is missing

And I tell you darhl, you won’t find it soon
Not at the bingo, karaoke or disco night
Not when your accelerating towards age
And a blinding speed

Sebastian Noël