MATERIALISM; OR, PASTOR —— TAKES THE RESTAURANT CAR FOR HEAVEN
UPON sharp floods of noise there glide
The red-brick houses, float, collide
With aspidestras, trains on steel
That lead us not to what we feel.
Hot glassy lights fill up the gloom
As water an aquarium,—
All mirror-bright; beneath these seen,
Our faces coloured by their sheen,
Seem objects under water, bent
By each bright-hued advertisement
Whose words are stamped upon our skin
As though the heat had burnt them in.
The jolting of the train that made
All objects coloured bars of shade,
Projects them sideways till they split
Splinters from eyeballs as they flit.
Down endless tubes of throats we squeeze
Our words, lymphatic paint to please