Industrialised glam, digitalised intimacy
Rich aroma, dancing lights;
implicit wonders are unexplored
as they hide beneath the headstock
obeying society's stream of thought.

Rigour movements, sundried streets
hustling and bustling with only time to beat;
withering moments drape the paved sidewalk
just like the bland orange tainted tree in
your grave backyard (which many have described to be hollow and large)

Lingering spirits have strewn themselves over your covered sheets,
cementing their curtains as the bright white light
of haven glistens above their unblinking eyes
constricted by the deafening silence,
untoned to the faint hymns of children's laughter.

"Stop to smell the roses", the wise men speak:
confidence is their ruse; do not let it deceive you.
They hide amongst the similar thousands of men,
yet never raising a head to any of them.
These are the children of our future.

Senseless to surroundings, spray them fresh air,
Move their cognitive gears to move their oil-rigged limbs;
Let their creative minds sway to the rhythm of rustling trees,
Revive the diverse culture of our people for these brainwashed folks;
Deny the irony of being consumed, when you are the consumer.

To lessen liabilities,
to lower costs and
make the world more,
more productive; exacting...

To make everything easier,
a life more fulfilling...
...more predictable, perhaps,
more equal than now.

To eliminate sadness,
anger, depression, anxiety.
To work less at everything,
they will do it all for me.

The planet will be saved by the extirpation of human activity...

...for who needs humans to trade stock?
...who needs humans to make widgets?
...who needs humans to clean things?

Who needs humans at all?

I peer into the depths of forest:
A seeming infinity of trees
And undergrowth.
Gnarled branches adorned
By countless butterfly wings.
A sea of green
Above those black-hole shadows.

Who knows what lies beyond those lines?
What friends or foes might well be met
In there.
Monsters may lurk,
Or fairies frolic around mushroom rings.

Yes, an infinity of sheer delight
Or hell.
Maybe I’ll find you a cottage in those woods,
With a garden path to lead you down for more.

I stare
And wonder.
Then I put away my mobile
(And the mayhem is gone again).
LOL.

Paul Butters

Millions of shadows rushing past
Fleeting contact, sparks in the void
Only a smallness of reason and rhyme
We talk in circles whilst
Not smiling beyond the veil of light
A tangled web we've chosen to weave
Now our relations are binary.
Just a number, a user ID
Lost in the machine,
I become
A lone,
Me.

O Babylon! Your God is a sport-utility vehicle, a VCR, and a two-car garage!
You delight in images of killing and artificially-large-breasted women!
Your arteries are clogged with Big Macs and a thousand pieces of Kentucky-Fried Chicken!
Your God is Technology.  Your God is Progress.

Your skyscrapers rise to the heavens!  Your astronauts fly to the moon!
You clone sheep! alter genes! make a mountain into a parking lot!
Your fields flower!  Your grain-bins groan under the weight of the ripe corn!
But the land of your soul is a desolation.

O God of Henry Ford, the Wright Brothers, and Bill Gates,...
All the nations adore Thee!
(Pretty soon they'll be ordering Papa John pizza by cell phone in New Guinea....)
Your God is Mammon.

After the movies, after the Quarter-pounders-with-cheese, super-size fries, and a large Coke,
after the evening news, the Hostess cupcakes, golf, beers, and swimming 20 laps,
the hunger will be the same as the day you first felt it, O Babylon!
the thirst of the soul, O Babylon!

I bought myself a new modern mobile
With Internet and all.
***
Such a leap into the stars
After my “Lappy” Laptop
And old Nokia.

Where do I begin?
Either here or on the phone?
At sixty five I need some kid
To show me.

All this feather-light touching and sweeping,
“Apps” and “Data” and battery preservation.
A bewildering jungle of meaningless symbols
That lead you into chaos.

It can be great:
Taking and sharing lovely vistas
For all your Facebook Friends.
Speaking to Google and getting a nice sounding
Lady reply.

Very handy indeed
Until it all goes wrong
And World War Three breaks out
Or else you are Stuck
As surely
As a Prisoner.

But hey, I can be a Fast Learn
Getting there
As at long last I enter
The Twenty First Century.

Paul Butters