We can send-up to an International Space Station

And boast to ourselves about it on the news

Men, and women too of course;

But eighteen hardly more than children stabbed

In London Town to death since New Year

Hah! What failures we are!

We’re all thinking ourselves somebodies, canny players

Romancing insignificance with a paranoid land-lens

Claiming to false ingenuousness, with wild passion

That we are a small unnotable in centripetal swirl

None but on our own set terms to live by, live with;

Heroic stuff, and brave - Bravo!......... O tempes, mores!

Happy to dance and chance the night of life away

Showing-off to a non-existent fancied audience

Only our outsized contraband opinions

Singing on actions as condign achievement

Compounding someone out in Space, yet as a carer

None of us

Can run things in his own backyard connectedly

Effectively collateral mess; all clubs, societies

Rubbish-heap helpless on our own resourceless casuistries

Cold-call us shameful slaves, a murky servile shower

We are the self-contented, even at pains to be so, but amongst

Our own so disagreeable as to go amain against

The next curmudgeon’s obstinate perversions

Gall urging a dismal dour indifferent vision,

A purple protestation

Wielding at large a grudge, and then our Trade Mark lust begun

Our selfhood wars with care, now tears at bleak spot sorrow

And malady

Whiles everywhere here is powerful pith of fashion-hanker

To ogle at, fantasise, beget the finest dreams

In denier; all the world behold become diarrhoea disaster

One big and nasty poke unswept, as seen in us;

That we conceive such manners as our normal daily bread

What praxis might it take, how long can prayer prevail,

Push; will it ever be the wasted heart will alter case

Disown its selfish, eyes-closed, fitful-sought nirvana?

The low and sorry self itself can show no better love

For me be witness all the stars of heaven

Arisen has a berth, a room, with foods that grow in -

A person has appeared to us, an angelus, a guide

His amplitude of attitude habilitates our ways

Ere all our pretty purgatories consolidate to clay:

That brusquely and completely speaks our storyline

Light glitzy glamours suffer after pins and sugared rings

These are the garbage haulage truckers use to stockpile shops

Tawdry dishevels clutter rows in nervous dishabille

Bathing in money, gangrene endless pleasures clutter wills

Our posing imposing - proposed postponing of the day

To oblivion when sufficient evil come thereof; and planet, seas,

By our revels hung to dry, attrition shunting forwards

A further ever-thinning line towards a closing time

And each straw one more draw, is drastic, catastrophic,

Counselling us, a sad and shallow set of occupants

On this great world - we truly don’t deserve it

I guess we do deserve, as just, the dust returned to