That courses in fresh blood, splumes and feints into action
With the glorious dip of red, chamber of the dead soul,
Soul unrecognised in post-modernity,
Soul is just a plastic cavity neatly sculpted like TV,
Like electronic memory.
Plastic dreams, manga, silk, vacant glossary
Of untamed desire. All make flesh arrogant,
Make the thought of love unkind.
Visions usurped by television,
Monstered in a cheap canned laugh,
All-accepted by the stunned masses.
Loneliness and its opposite, fulfilment,
Both as cheap as cheap cigarettes
Bought at an all-night garage-
Cheap as a vicious kick,
Meaningless, like smelling disenfectant
In a closing-down video store.
Evening does not bring hope,
The faces of the crowd do not change.
If only I could persuade God
That what I feel is not dead inside me.
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