2009-05-09 - 12:56 p.m.

Being on the dole means that you have to do a little dance every two weeks. That’s the deal between you and the Man. Dance with the devil in the pale moonlight. You don’t have to give head to the Man. No, nothing like that, all you have to do is prance a little for his delectation, caper on his baited string. You play the mendicant who must snatch and bat at the jiggling carrot in the dumbshow. The Man leads and you follow his obvious hefty movements. There is no flirtation, no passion, no fancy footwork. This is a zipless fuck of a deal. ‘Mr…’ they say from somewhere back there and you traipse toward that hanging office voice, clutching the noose, the voice of the state ushering you down the moneyline. You sit there cowed, unshaven, failed, as they beam hatred at your scrounging sweaty face. You’ve had no luck. You missed the meeting. There have been no changes in your circumstances. But soon, soon it will all be over. You will be signed off for another two weeks, a vampire drip-fed by the diurnal tax payers. The pot of ransom gold awaits. That little scribble means the government will give you money. Enough to keep you schlepping back for another hit. You are a whore of the state. You are 29 years old.

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