Herding flatly in the heat of streets
They rise up
Expecting rights and comfort all around.
But there is none.

Well, as a matter of fact there is some
(Thanks to Matt Cook we can all be more honest now
In poems.  Gear-changing - so much fun)

For instance, take 1 - 4 above.  
It's about groups of people in cafes and bars
In a hot evening city.  I wasn't feeling
Like Joining In.
So,
They were all irritating gits in my eyes
All condemned therefore in writing about it.
Then and afterwards
They were sad desperate zombies, so they were
All looking for a fix of pleasure, distraction, coin
Of their toil exchanging misery for oblivion and so

Doomed
Doomed
Doomed.  

But they weren't really
Of course.

I expect many of them had a truly great time.
Staggering laughter, blow-out fun, exuberance
Of release - and dancing through the
Smoke and din and drink and clashing colours, scents.

Maybe in midst someone of special poise  
Looked felt words across that bar that
Roared and rocked them far apart.  
Then laser quiet unites:
A magic channel switching out the noise.
Later they loved.
It tasted good and lasted.

Years, children, garden, wins,
Losses, and still some Mayhem Friends -
'Remember that night, and the chap
With the crash hat
Who just stood and looked?

I wonder what happened

To him?'