20th Century life is

A consistency
Of squiggles, goggles,
Biggles and bastardy.
I tread shit daily.
This plastic world
Moulds us all into
Turds - inedible, indelible,
Unfeelable - all hell
Floats here.  See the streets.
Communication is
Baby talk or knives - our race
Can hardly walk never mind
Run, but soon men will tread
The clean red earth of Mars.
We can export our own
Hell our own smell
Of indecency and cauterised
Compassion to 
An unsoiled land - give it bars
And strip joints, drugs and
Lies, exploitation and satan
And soil it well.  Love dies
A death in the face of
Our cheap sex, our quick
Thrills - as perverse as you like -
I saw it on the box -
The man in the driving seat
Said it was OK, but he
Had no soul, no will to choose
The good deed instead, to unsay
All the poison that is
Sold, and old, that has a price
Tag that tells.  All is 
Cash-registered and rung, all is
As it has ever been.
Scream.  Do a Munch.
No-one else will care -
We are all out to lunch 
Too busy staring at ourselves,
Immunising our searing
Pain of bad reality 
With some new addiction - 
Our clean needles do the job
So well -
That the sores don't even
Hurt anymore because we can't
Feel.
Fuck-over the person next door.
If the TV's on, they won't even
Hear.

previous poem