Blank-faced through the rain,
Shoes kicking into view, walking nowhere
In the empty trance of being busy
(Without truly being Busy).

The faceless bookweight on my back is my father
In those gritty seventies,
And he is truly being Busy,
Sending guilty, nervous after-shocks
Into my mindless brain,

Agitated yet still,
Filled and re-filled
With some exhausted biochemical
Which is fantasy,
Which is no longer reality,
Which was never reality:

Soulless puppets angrily yanked
Across the grey, damp void in my head,
And electrical remnants of my father
Trying to wake me up.