In the 21st century,
we only care about beauty
and outer appearance,
we sometimes forget
what our lives really mean.

Tiny waists, *******
that aren’t too big, but
are big enough,
a space between
your thighs, and
a smile to ****-
this is what defines you,
If you’re not attractive,
you’re not worth it.

In the 21st century,
it doesn’t matter how you feel,
your self worth will be
flushed down the drain.

In the 21st century,
if you’re not perfect,
just walk away and
don’t
look
back.

they lived
like the only customers at a funfair;
weeks caroselling
with swollen rise and fall,
like the horses forgot
to gallop in circles.
they had their own world
of haunted houses
and helter-skelters
but the stalls were all out
of candyfloss
and, as they slotted coins
into cork-rifles,
they shot themselves
to pieces
without winning
a single prize.

A nothingness wrapped
in mediocrity owns this
wall, owns your gaze.
Mere sheets and hints
of printed words pinned
to immensity, slathered
in greater glumps of white,
but the description makes it
less as you learn the painting
somehow represents
the communities fractured
by Eisenhower’s highways.
You look at it, then back
at the description. You step
away and travel to the video-
foot exhibit—a boot decimates
pumpkin pie on a screen,
and all you can do is thank God
that there isn’t a description
for this as well.

And when I decide
That the weight weighs far too much
You'll remember me
And I'll remember all of the
Miserable
Blue ticks

And they are doing white
Cars,
Nice haircuts and,
Broad Boulevards,

They are doing slick radio Ads,
Smooth charcoal voices,
And Western music,

Gliding with thoughts of Cashmere,

Air-conditioned Kaftan's catching the breeze just so,
Dark glasses like reflective buildings
Perched on tight noses,

Moving forward with morning talk shows in,
Gleaming white cars,

Fabulous fingers prodding perfectly balanced power buttons,

Opulent mechanisms,
Fabulous manoeuvres,

In Dehli they are moving swiftly,
Their stylish Sari's, airborne.

My cook is late with dinner and I hear no clanging of pans,
She's usually prompt with dinner be it soup, steak or hams,
Now my butler won't answer when I ring the bell,
He usually attendants swiftly now I begin to dwell,
CLEANER,  CLEANER I yell and I scream,
WHERE ARE YOU ALL? I'M HUNGRY WHERE'S TEA?
Beside my pipe I notice a slip,
And written using my finest pen tip,
Is a note so absurd it reeks of a mockery,
Their ****** syndicate has won the lottery.

Were all just machines, bound for the train station that’ll hightail us out and over
To the junkyard where we never sleep and the foundry melts us down to make room
For the new undead, but non-living, to starve for what their computers say they need.
But when you smile, your eyes show me that you have a soul inside that’s beautiful,
And it proves my heart is something more than what the factory made it for;
That my love means something more than a series of chemical reactions in my brain,
That the mornings and nights we spent were worth more than we ever knew,
And that you are someone more special to me than I have ever known.

So, as we fly down the track of grayest metals and coldest weather, into the north country
To God knows where to as the sun is at dawn and dusk at the same time,
Remember that your heart doesn’t need to be held like coal, that your eyes are soulful,
That someone, somewhere thinks you’re more than a piece of electric meat,
That I think you’re worth more than my life,—my holy hunk of steel—but don’t let that
Get to your head missy! And that when we’re laid upon the cutting board
To be scraped and melted down, I want to be laid there next to you
To kiss you one more time, while I look into your eyes, searchingly.

you send mixed signals or maybe i just havent got your message

So much depends upon
The open sky cut open by the trees
By the rain by the lives that we led

Upside down we stood as if for years
Waiting to become the person
We were meant to be
On the back trails of our open heart
So much depends upon

Listening to Bach in the dark
How poets undressed our sympathy
In clothes of the absolute

So much depends upon
The sound of Mandarin like
Circumstance, and stillness that never dies
These were the cries that we reached
Out for, as if we could grasp the light

So much depends upon
The dreaming of what is possible
And prowling around the people
Whom we let hurt us in order to
Learn more completely how to feel.

Pain and frustration,
Anger and deprivation
The plagues of society grow

We create and covort
Deceive and abort
We will yet meet our unruly end