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

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