Progress

The din too often deafens
As an angry crowd screams,
And they always do.
Against our slow and steady progress
They are always
Rattling and railing,
With their faces contorted,
In poorly considered rage.

Whether aligned along the left
Or right margin,
They all reverberate the word
As a filthy and
Unfortunate curse:

Technology.

I think their issue
Like any other really,
Has all the facets
Of a sickly stone.
Also amusing
And...
Absolutely appropriate to the metaphor,
Is that they often shine
In opposition to one another.

Some see technology
And all the waves it makes
As a chill wind
Puckered forth
From a rotten mouth.
Pushing society sailing
From something they hold sacred.

They often scream of impropriety
Evil in the media
And the joy their teenagers find
Within
One another.
Then in one breath
The very same
Never missing a beat
They will rage at the safety it brings
To a woman's right
To practice control over her own body.

And they snarl so bitterly
When it illuminates
The empty, murky places
Their cherished father
Said he'd be hiding in.

And yet others array themselves
Across picket lines
Against them.
Frothing at the mouth
With breathless indignation.

These newcomers will acknowledge
Mankind's mastery
When their voices can be heard
Cross continents
Fiber optically.

But in Double-Think
That would astonish Orwell,
They will plead for
Magical mystery
And regression
Into some ridiculous Luddite nonsense.

They'll see science
It seems,
As a monolithic
Chainsaw ridden
Clear cutting
Smog spewing
Metal monstrosity,
Driven by an arrogant
Spectacle'd
Fuck
Wearing a lab coat.

Quite frankly,
I have to say that I feel
From the very bottom of my heart
That they've watched
Far too many episodes of Captain Planet.

Rather,
Technology is,
Your child seeing two candles on its cake
And your wife surviving labour.

Any other definition,
Is the raving of a fool
Who in belief, if not in words,
Glorifies the pig
Rolling in its own filth

Get out of the mud
The world is waiting,
And its wonderful.