Ones & Zeros
James Stratford
I rest my arm at the window of my taxi
As we pass through the ones and zeros.
Club sounds felt through my bones;
The smells of a world never lit in my nose.
No sense or culture here.
Just ones meeting zeros.
No purpose or thought;
Humans reduced to binary by beer and mojitos
Vomit and brawls,
Fast food in short skirts.
Shallow liaisons, repressed self-esteem;
The ones and zeros fuel the machine.
Sore heads on Sunday,
Memories incomplete.
No worth added to the race,
The never-lit world gone for another week
Another Monday, the same old question.
Sell the myth, be like the rest:
"Did you have fun on Saturday?"
"It was the best."
…but I digress.