Low-Fi Heaven - Hi-Tech Hell

All vision simmers in this heat;
all rhythm breaks like bad guitar
and we could melt into the ground
to damn the world for hatred
of its short existence.

Head out across the loopway
where derelicts collect
and sit with them remembering
the blues they heard
and steal their drink.

The weather breaks the pavement
with its un-steered malice
brought from Europe
to the final empire builders
for their urban dreams.

The highway loves you,
drunk and spinning, singing
with the wind from oceans,
flagging voyages with
meteorology.

Under the white bridges
where the paper lifts
in powered flight
from ages we will never see,
the angels sleep.


I have just been looking for a picture of bridges to go behind the title up there and I just found this website which came up on Google because of a black and white picture of the New York Bridges from the site owner's Office near the top of the North Tower of the WTC. I have looked up the name and he is confirmed dead. His whole life detailed on this site and it just stopped. The site has just kept going. That says more than any poetry ever could.

I am not sure my colleagues found this as sad and strange as I did. Rationality in everything Bob. Get a grip.