This Fois Gras that passes as over stimulation

in a world caught between addiction and boredom

is no stranger to me. The constant need to be seen as busy,

to be productive, to be industrious, to be

constantly consuming Time, to be seen, to be seen

and watched and asked why if you take

the moment in which the splendour of a flower at bloom

catches your eye, someone will tell you

with a sneer and a stifling look of contempt, all the usual

despairing buzz words they have learned from their

own over stimulating addiction, get with the programme,

smell the overpriced rancid coffee and rush, rush, rush,

for if you’re not taking Time to task then

Time will consume you…

I say no more.

 

The grinning jackals of Time will not

allow such pleasantries and will find

more interesting ways in which to turn you

into Human chopped liver or the

butter tasting Fois Gras, stomach turning,

bloated excess

to be had, to be had, to be had

and not allow the breathing of pure air,

to witness the simplicity of the lack of Time

without worrying that should the flower

suddenly look inviting

that it truly is alright to sniff the pollen and sneeze

without being told you are lazy,

or being a burden on society;

I am not Fois Gras.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015