#6 Howl

I see the best minds of my generation destroyed by their apathy, pretending to be interested, crouching and cowering, and adjusting the brightness levels of machines to ease their eyes,

fooling themselves and nodding in indifferent agreement with the rabble babble of soulless networks stealing time precious irredeemable time under their noses,

who sit up smoking everything and drinking and more and sometimes less,

only waiting for the next time their bank accounts will be topped up again, and hoping,

knowing fully well it won’t, but hoping anyway,

that it’ll make a damned difference.

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# 5 Abstract Abandon

There is art here, all around,

framed and hung strategically

on the walls

because, you see, 
they must know we are cultured.

That we pause, sometimes,

as we hurry past,

and we deeply inhale

the soothing balm 

of vague abstractions
and obscure design.

They mustn’t think otherwise-

it must not be said that we don’t

look at the paintings,

that we do not have time,

and that the stark white light

reflects off the glass

and all you can see, if you were to look

away from the screen,

would be your own face,

haggard, dark-circled, defeated.

They mustn’t know that all the art is dead,

that it hangs in mocking derision.

They’d rather believe that

the colours, and patterns,

can revive us,

make this worthwhile.

There is art everywhere here,

beckoning to flights

of fantasy,

but nobody looks,

nobody lingers,
and nobody flies.

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