The Synthetic Shambhala
City slickers, highfliers,
Blue collared clerks,
And down and out workers.
Each leans back; collective sigh.
Train departs station at scheduled time.
Mind the gap; doors closing
Away from the rain and handshaking lies.
To a place where all follows the clocks ticks and chimes.
The porter pops by with pills,
Pills of aspartame and sucrose,
To be taken hourly,’ said The Designers,
‘Essential for those who journey to
The Synthetic Shambhala.
Perfection was promised in Arthur’s brochure,
Sodium Sacchanin, Postassium Sorbate,
Preservatives used to keep the air pure.
The train enters a tunnel,
Complexly, constructed of imitation cobweb.
Fabricated from filaments and threads,
Of fine fibreglass wool.
Arthur scans the pages; the facts stated are thus,
“Originally the designers called for giant spiders
To weave this and the land’s outer shell.
But during assembly none could survive,
For despite idyllically sunny weather conditions,
In the perfection of the Synthetic Shambhala
There are not any flies”
The train pulls into the station,
At exactly three fifty-nine,
Arthur takes the tablets,
In accordance to the clocks ticks and chimes.
The sky pulses the product of many an additive,
The sun shines
No dirt, mould or grime,
It is perfection encapsulated.
A hostess welcomes the workers,
A toothy smile of artificial confection,
Her own pearlers gone to pills
Pills of aspartame and sucrose.
“The designers,” she trilled “wish you a good stay,
Please take a bag of fresh filtered oxygen and have a nice day.”
For nothing at all is natural,
In this, The Synthetic Shambhala.