Magnificent, men are now fully engineered.
Even their bio-rhythms are geared with precision
to the false velocities, the aggression of the machine—
like mimics, they enact mannerisms
of the mechanical.
Daily their behaviour grows more reverent
as their bodies are rendered subtly less expert
in the undemonstrative ease of muscle,
(a unit enmeshed in life’s haphazard vibe).
What they can’t see doesn’t count:
while the city air fumes with combustion’s
the legions of the victims of speed
lie incognito between sheets of statistical postscript.
Emotion follows suit.
The routine of the bitumen has a way of brutalizing,
and the windscreened transitions of hi-octane joyrides
plug in the end all odd sparks
of human rejoicing.