Why did the joy separate from the work?
Why did they go their separate ways?
Now only the old, the sick and the broken
Are left to follow the ancient paths
Whilst all else is subordinated to
The pantheon of money, pain and pleasure
Where did the spirit go?
Was it evaporated off into space?

Engine purrs with sensuous warm injection
The whistle echoes back and forth from the lamp-poles
And the feet march, well-heeled clicking souls
Later on the train
Her sensuous hand reaches out to present the ticket and
The fingers curl gracefully back to grasp it again
Another woman stands, poised like a lion
Whilst in my mind
The page-three tits from the newspaper rack superimpose themselves
Should I feel guilty about this politically uncorrect perception?
Lust allied to the death-science throws images at me
Cold, frozen the puckered fanny in my friend’s porno-mag
Though he was ripped off:
There was a sign saying “NO BROWSERS”
And he bought it
In a foreign country
The young
Suffering still
Not to be
Nor yet to see
A forty-two Cuba loomed its head
With CIA and dodgy dealings
The shock of promised tactical warfare
Did more than hurt our feelings
Sixty-eight was Vietnam
A story often told
They burned the skin from the land
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things
We murder to dissect.


© Copyright Christopher J. Hudson 1996