Cubes we call houses, with machines out front we call cars,
preferably more of them, and bigger; inside, things we nickname
fridges, cookers, beds, air cons—things and things and things—
the more the better, just for you, just for us; the trees are weeping,
their breath pumping back the already poisoned atmosphere.
The lies of lies wind like a clear stream
from the windows of these houses, swelling into rivers in the streets,
to pour themselves into vast oceans of deceit, swelling into joy,
into confidence, into superiority, proclaiming
the greatness of our civilisation. Heads in car windows,
heads poking through holes in synthetic clothes, heads in churches—
sleeping, yawning, giggling two-legged creatures
ruling over what they believe is their limitless magnificence;
their supposed and actual intellects are a warped reflection, rooted
in centuries of grime, never allowing their eyes to face a mirror,
for the real monsters lurking there would steal away
those rock-solid foundations of confidence, foundations built on air.
Wretches as pitiful as me somehow caught sight—
I saw, they saw, I saw myself—
and since then I can’t bear to look at myself; I’d weep, if I could,
if it wouldn’t make me even more hypocritical, more pathetic,
if it held any meaning at all—but it doesn’t.
I don’t even listen anymore, don’t look, don’t care what happens,
because if this is the brightest civilisation we could reach,
if this is the contemporary peak of intellect,
then I want no part of it. I just flail
like a bug sprayed with poison on the carpet, mouthing silently;
I belong nowhere, I loathe myself, because we let
this twisted self-worship climbs to such heights; we let
self-love, self-stroking, the dreadful psychology of self-adoration
grow such an ego on this giant
that it devours everything, unstoppable.
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