Don’t work for content mills, it’s slave labour. The gig economy is a cold and cruel place for writers. To get the next assignment, writers across the globe compete in the race to the bottom. You’re better than that!
I pitch, I fail
I pitch, I win
two cents a word, not a dollar more
Clock ticking, deadline looming,
I sit down hammering
letters and words and commas,
I hit delete, pause, read, edit,
write on and on and on.
Sweat stains my shirt,
my fingers numb
still soldiering on.
The clock tick tock
slower than
the thumping.
Fog descends
knocking over
a cup of
cold
cheap
black
coffee.
The liquid tar vanishes
between the A and the D and the S.
I can't write the word SAD no more,
I bemoan.
The clock tick tock
rips me from the sky.
Shit, I'll miss the deadline.
I hammer on
spouting SEO words
like a good little gigger.
Eight hours on,
I push send
two minutes to closing
The clock goes silent.
I make the bills on Friday
the hammering's atonement
wine like vinegar
to soften the blow of
edgy editor etchings
I invoice
I pitch
clambering for the
next gig
The pendulum swings
between drought and flood
no balmy stream in sight
I gotta join the race
to the bottom
to clinch the next gig
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