I bought these designer pants yesterday,
Endorsed by all the gram influencers,
They are slimming they all gushed.

The pants are made of the softest wool,
Designed to cocoon and insulate you,
Protect you from all the judgement.

They have pretend pockets stitched in,
Because what could you possibly put in them,
That’s more important than looking thin?

You pose and pout,
Seduction by superficial sauciness.
You tell me of your day
With that simpering voice,
Raising each last word
Long and loud.

You show me your flash cars,
Your sumptuous wardrobe
And who knows what else?

You and your kin call yourselves “Influencers” –
A great word,
But all you do is make people:
People who have grafted long and hard
For a little spare cash,
Go buy things they
Do not really need.

Right Said Fred was Right:
The global catwalk
Is a sham.

I too would love to be an “Influencer”,
Such a fine word,
But I would be one to encourage folk
To Love others,
Stop all this Conflict
Between polar opposites and extremes,
Fight only for the Common Good,
And make the world a better place
For All.

Paul Butters

© PB 15\1\2021.

sickness from life
alive and well, they say
you are your own destiny
they said

I stepped on the stage
and showcased my talents
rotten tomatoes they share
believe, in your self - they taught

Each day, we carry our names through urban terrain.
For every letter laid out and shining atop the cityscape,
a thousand more become garbage scattered in darkness.
Yet I'm courted into thinking I'm on the right street
by algorithms selling dopamine down Sideways Alley.

Too soon after bearing my soul on the infinite scroll,
tourists flock and flap to get at the itch on my back.
Their words cut deep like plastic knives at a banquet.
Their hearts warm like the walls of an empty fridge.
Breadcrumbs left behind only lead to the trapdoor.

Those in luxury estates who threw paint on a throne -
their patches of land fertile and thriving up to the gates -
offer tips on organic growth that can build into empires,
while those packed in high-rise blocks act like bandits,
egos painted loud on knock-off flags hung to balconies.

What am I in this black hole of corrupted competition?
Views above the skyline only provide anxious thoughts.
Occasionally, I find answers in unseen neighbourhoods.
An outstretched hand holds a glass of chilled apple juice.
Now we go round each other's house to share fresh fruit.

WHILE I STARE

While I stare at the deep of the earth
I tear from my eyes
Is this what He made it to be?
Were we all meant to live like this?

Guns became our toys
Breaking hearts became a thing of joy
Corruption became a hobby
and we've turned immorality into our Tommy

Now that I choose not to be part
they tag me, a daft
that I am dumb
for not wanting to be part of the smart ones

While I stare at the repulsiveness
instigated and done by the of the sons of men
Not even afraid anymore, we sleep and dine with them
and are forced to be close friends

Now, I am void of tears
What is the need to weep over what is dead?
I will try my best to revive them
Not cry over what will not be solved with tears.

I will save the few I can
So they also can stare from afar
and thank Him for our lives;
the lives of positive influencers.

-Emmiasky Ojex