Vegan Apocalypse


Turn down your hearing aids 

for any hope to hear

Below the wall to wall noise

Imagined entertainment

The wide screens, slot machines

Slipping in through narrow window slots

Indoors pretending to be out.


Desperate faces pretending happiness

Out in the flushing meadows of the floor

Pit stops on the race to waste

Hoovering wealth, producing misery

What huge ruin lies in the desert 

Of the lost republic.


Distracted from orange juice, coffee

Two bored blondes peer into apples

No affect mars glazed eyes

Feeding only on bytes


A swaying glass eyed dude

Cannot find his feet, caught

In the vice grip of his dream

impossibly slim legs, slender skirt

Baited breasts, fingers locked

On her prey, taking him to the cleaner.


A family down the row of booths

Young children lost in handhelds 

Young parents lost their held hands

Wondering why 

They breakfast in a diner

Lost inside this corner of deception.


Lost in this Pinnochian Paradise

This Vegan apocalypse

This, year six of

Barack Obama's America. 

 © Philip Knight 2018