Portrait of an Artist as a Corporate Pleb

I'm fine

as long as I have my 

oat lattè, sipping away 

ignoring the pauper asking

a man for a f*g 

or the toddler, crying 

while his mother receives 

her holy communion of gossip.

I'm grand

I've a few hours until 

I have to sit 

in the corner of my room

and listen to how

I could be a better

colleague, team mate, partner, 

saviour of our most sacred salary.

I'm alright

as long as I have my

routine regimented with rigour 

and work-life balance, worthy

of new media testament

with followers engaged for

a false prophet, intent

on delivering us from deficit �" 

Holy Market, mother of stock, 

pray for us servers

now and in the hour of our layoffs, 

"AI".