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Brian Ward
Community Incommunicate

The emptiness, the loneliness,
the solitude of multitudes
that choke the pavement.

Thoughts born to wither incommunicate,
a smile unshared, a bitter grin,
a pain uneased by others' sharing.

The vacant souls, all clad in City grey,
the "Good for you, old boy" that rings so false,
'cause each is each and each the other threatens
in job and pride of place. (God what is that
when everyone's an ant
whose task and path is plotted
in the mechanised economy of anthill conurbations?)

The lunchtime pub, the bread and cheese and stout,
and babbled hum of lime-light hungry egos,
and filthy talk of getting sans begetting
fills in the vast vacuity, supplies the lack
of decent human talk and thought
and human things that men might say to men.

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