Friday, July 08, 2011
In a restaurant
Of course, the real disaster is always one’s own death. The immortal slave was seen dining with a merchant prince, archduke of the electronic dreamwaves, executor of sharemarkets, poker machines and two flies up a wall, potentate of the demesne of tittle-tattle, authority of virtual hope and manufactured despair, a man as sensual and fragrant as money, with a sleekness that purses the lips of prime ministers and minor tyrants in shrewd calculations.
It is not enough to make the world bow down with a toxic smile on its lips. But it may be some compensation.
From The Common Flesh, New and Selected Poems, Arc Publications
It is not enough to make the world bow down with a toxic smile on its lips. But it may be some compensation.
From The Common Flesh, New and Selected Poems, Arc Publications
