They sit at desks, PC-equipped,
round-shouldered, fingers stroking keys:
without exception microchipped
beneath their skin, like worker-bees
engaged in labour: a dark hive
of insects only half alive.
An artificial, sterile pod,
is their environment, austere.
A faceless robot is their God.
Its scrutiny engenders fear
so they work tirelessly, these fools:
not men or women, merely tools.
This is the future, mark it well:
all life ersatz, no air, no trees.
No brimstone but no less a Hell
where there can be no escapees.
All life lived in an endless Now.
The Beast’s mark stamped on every brow.
Richard Fleming
