Plane.

He gets on a small private
jet plane:
red carpet
leading up to it;
his own plane
of his own
airline.

He's just
another
fevered ego
in a world
of fevered egos
and confused minds

and media
blistering our
once-pure
thoughts:
now convoluted
by the everyday.

I hope his plane
crashes
and burns
and cooks
his unworthy flesh
into nothingness;

and I hope
the peasant
that lay
his carpet
smiles
at such
unpleasant news.

If I had the money
I'd put such petty trivialities
into the ground
and have people
in plain clothes
look me in the eye
for the unworthy cunt that I am
as they serve me
my ice-cold
cola with ice.

Crude.

You're in Saudi control;
you're
a slave
to the pump.

This spill won't be
the last
to give you
the jump.

It's the reason
why
Nigerians
live
in such squalor.

It's the reason
why
you fret
over
the worth
of the dollar.

It provides you with
a guarantee
that
you'll see
your food.

Why don't you
just
admit it:
you're
a slave
to the crude.

It's in between your fingers;
it's all
in your mouth.

It's all over the map:
east, west,
central
and south.

It's even up north -
in Albertan
tar-pit sands.

It's the reason why
Iraqis
were killed
on their own land.

It's the peril in the pot
and the grease
for the
silver lining;

no one
can see
the signs
when
minds
stop shining.

It's the maker
of our fortune
and the ender
of our times.

We have
all the right technology,
but not
the willingness
of mind.

Country.

If one night we're killed in our sleep, 

we'll know we had it coming:
the blood that's been spilled in our name 

will never stop running.

The conscience of a silent voice 

trembles in the light.
All this we take for granted 

is nothing but a blight.

Everything we've done 

has come at a cost.
Everything we've won 

has equalled life lost.

There are people out there now 

with families dead.
I hope our petty concerns 

will soon fall through our heads.

People who once were huddled in soot

now rise again;

can you hear the pillars crumbling

as our empires wane?

All this wealth will fall atop us

and crush us 

in extravagant death:

as our lungs struggle for air

the world takes a breath.

Someone out there shudders

'neath cold sunset air,

as they observe the silence

and smell the scents of

new fare:

our pursuits of endless pleasure

someday had to end:

through choice or realisation;

through death or dividend.

The blood,

it soaks into the sand;

into the palm

of desert hand,

as we reap what was begun

(but we know 

our day

will never come).