Cultural Wastelands

Cultural wastelands
are expanding all the time.
There's no beauty here:
daytime is so dull and grey;
only spurious
thrills provide a modicum
of relief. There is
the hackneyed flogging of dead
horses at twilight,
and during the night, given
luck, brightly- coloured
choirs of hysterical swine.
During rehearsals,
I gather that these plastic
performers, often
melt in the afternoon heat.
There's no quietude
from which great Art can grow.
Indeed, it cannot
even be born among these
noisy and futile
distractions: filled with hot air.
Fashions come and go,
yet the human condition
remains, in al its
light and dark aspects. These
dabblers are of no
consequence at all; merely
decorators of
nothingness, in all its forms.