poem

Where are the people when it rains? Where are their hearts, minds and brains?

Why do we stare at dancing coloured fog? Why do we fill up on electronic grog?

Why do my thoughts hurt me like a brutal strike?
How could we have swapped our hand made crafts for 'nike'?

Where are the hugs, kind words, the loving familial tribes?
Did we really kill them for economic bribes?

Are we really at home in lunar concrete landscapes?
Do you think youl ever shake that empty feeling with technotronic escapes?

Will you ever see your brutal prison cell?
Will you notice the 'good intentions' that lead us to hell?

Who will decide the minutia of our lives?
Do we le.ave it to the white coat rulers of our beehives?

Unfinished...

thought

The propagandist's purpose is to
make one set of people forget
that certain other sets of people
are human.

Aldous Huxley