Becoming Zombies
An open-plan office immobility of total silence -
it doesn't seem like an apex of existence, this
typing routine Interpol messages on stolen cars;
I can only sit still while nibbling my way through a
mountain of food, listening to unsuitable music
through earphones - nothing's appropriate - nor
is reading inapposite advice on my guru's website
I know not to interfere in other people's affairs but
it is awful when nobody sticks their nose into mine,
no reply to my emails requesting information, after
typing three words utter desolation descends to
complete my immolation, only one colleague in the
abandoned office bravely forging ahead with her
urgent government service document
The desolation of what we're doing being here is
closing in on us, it is all we can offer, without other
beings to interact with we are like the living dead,
strangely enough we haven't become zombies
- yet
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The human race is slowly turning into zombies