Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From

But Sometimes Everything I Write With The Threadbare Art Of My Eye Seems A Snapshot

And Blue-lung'd Combers Lumbered To The Kill.

History Has To Live With What Was Here, Clutching And Close To Fumbling All We Had - It Is So Dull And Gruesome How We Die, Unlike Writing, Life Never Finishes.

Middle Age At Forty-five, What Next, What Next? At Every Corner, I Meet My Father, My Age, Still Alive.

Everywhere, Giant Finned Cars Nose Forward Like Fish; A Savage Servility Slides By On Grease.