“The specific economic form, in which unpaid surplus labour is pumped out of direct producers, determines the relationship of rulers and ruled.” –Karl Marx, Capital Vol. 3
I had a boss once, who among other things, told me:
“I don’t want you working on your poetry during company time.”
My caboose was to be confined to the chair in my office.
I was to ignore any visitation of sudden, non-work-related inspiration.
Short walks were permissible but not short poems.
I promised him efficiency and a brutal suppression of my art.
But in my head (and my proletarian heart) I told him:
“I will do my job and I will do my duty—
But you cannot take my surplus beauty.”