by Phil Murray
In a room full of sound
And a nicotine haze,
Stand glittering machines with electronic smiles
And little windows with salivary delights
(Each technically augmented, of course)
So I with the rest pay tribute and homage
To these transistorized gods who vomit forth prizes
All steamy and hot and tasting like cardboard.
How ugly is chrome,
And tubular chairs
That fit to a form that’s not quite yours,
With a plasticine form eating celluloid food
In a room full of people, Alone in myself.