On ‘Influencers’

I’m not influenced by the girls with the pretty faces
trying to sell me powders and milkshakes and tits
and rags.
Bollocks to the boys on boats and yachts in the sun.
Strip them of their veneers and Italian clothes and
show me who they really are.
And while you’re at it, scrap that airbrush, that
pixelated hourglass magician and replace it all
with wrinkles, hairy chins and pits, baby pouches
and bingo wings and hip dips and tummies full
of all that exotic food.
You can’t influence me to buy that thing
that company is using your pretty face for.
You can’t influence me whilst you hide behind
your smile on your phone, your misery-filled
weeknights not making the prime time slot.
That’s not your best life, sweetie, that’s a life
you’re told to live whilst waiting for that
three-hundred pound to drop from that
lace-clad post and the fat all sucked back
to your organs.
You’re a content creator, a company pawn, a
professional button presser in your two-bed semi
on your supermarket trip and cleaning the bog
like the rest of us. The influenced.
Swipe up for brains, swipe up for stories, for time,
give me what I want.
Give them what they want, the email says,
give them what they want for that three-hundred
pound.
An influencer.
Don’t make me laugh.

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