Ten Minutes of Shame
Poem by Christine Lines, © 2010
Alarm screaming, hungry cat kneading,
sense-assault, mind switch-on —
Where are you going?
Piss, shower, brush, munch,
gas-guzzle your ass to work —
What are you doing?
Cut open boxes, operate inside,
check mark boxes, inventory time —
What are you selling?
plastic bags under eyes,
receipt-tape poetry gag,
please lay waste to forests
and donate to wildlife funds
with a chance to win
five hundred fucking dollars
tell us how we did,
customer service brown-noser
knows customer is never right —
What are you buying?
Burger, vodka, diuretic wretch
into the toilet from both ends,
pretty yourself up, skinny,
cover box-cutter scars with
I can’t believe how long your
cock’s wing-like eyelashes are,
feel the wind off those things,
I bet crying sex-slave girls in
Kim-Jong KILL’s North Korea
have their tears dried when you blink,
don’t let your mascara run,
look perfect Barbie plastic for
close-up HD celebrity photos
when they discover your body
hanging from your work tie.
Why are you here?
I named this poem “Ten Minutes of Shame” because I wrote it in 10 minutes, just letting the words drip freely onto my notebook before I go to bed, and it’s a sort of anti-memoir for the modern slave worker scrambling for ten minutes of fame and recognition, that ten minutes to say or do something worth remembering, only to have the voice drowned out under all the marketing saying we’re not good enough without the products which don’t make our lives any better.