Written When Most Are Proud Cyborgs

In pleasantries, orchestrated on our screens, We live the lives of many men and women, As if sex could be! We grow, composed of well-cooked pablum Eaten between long work hours, digested pleasantly. In a fetal coil, I rest, my optic eye Doesn’t blink at the silver reticules of my mind: My body well knit by well-knit engineers, This me-model makes real tears, running from my eyes. Of course I’m human – hammered out in school, Wearing what Designers Club tells me to; You and I, we can adjust ourselves with tools, Look down upon the Primitives -- those old fools. Insulated from all microbial bio-terrors, Safe from the brute, the thorn, the flawed flower Blooming wild; we -- kept safe – know no variant weather, Pity the Primitive, exposed to flood and laser-tower. Did you see those messages, scrawled upon a wall, Comparing us with vipers at Adam’s Fall? There’s not an original thought in what he thinks: That purist Primitive! His raw flesh stinks! Computers say it best, and yet, I see Something –compelling--- in his graffiti: “O song, sing forth unto the endless skies-- O hear, created stars! You long have looked Upon all who weep, who ever made outcry, And wrote it down, in God’s forgotten book.” written for those in the future--a protest against genetic engineering