A Harsh Machine

Against a tiered grid work circuit,
spamed taxis dodge schizophrenically,
weaving a pattern, a blaring blinkered
dance of the airport connections and cell
phone dropouts.

See the yuppies rave, in insect yellow
conveyances that crawl through a writhing
corporate sea, marching to lunch hour tunes.
Anemic chain store lattes splashing in
styrofoam cups; as they amble through the
logo landscape.

Mid range Astra driving blondes in short skirts
enrage the asiatic hoard of taxis, stopping to text
between traffic lights.

Photocopied arses off to be spun, crystals on the
dashboard and Lady Da da on the iPod. Bottled
sun kissed brown skins with shoes on the floor
and spare knickers in their bags.

Human filing cabinets beckon, they house the
cubicled clans till swipe off time.
People who sit in boxes, looking into boxes, ticking
off little boxes; boxed themselves.

The city coalesced sometime in the noughties,
swallowed by up the twenty first century; fragments still
seem familiar but gutted of soul, a harsh machine.
And in its shadows we the lost still to judge the glutted
hordes.

Schizophrenic like the taxis, “ Can’t you see it?” We
outcasts scream, “This harsh machine counts off your days,
and tears your living souls away.” They stare in fear at the
weird prophets. Mad filthy truth! Requires only minor tributes.
Coins cast as talismans against the secret inner voices.

The city starts again, too hot too bright, too painfully real
and it eats us up, makes particles of us. We are dissolved back
into its body, and the system pushes the particles on.