M. Gorbachev and Social Death at Seven
I live in an era in which people take photographs of puddles. Do you realize how sensitive and profound is my era? And what have I done for it? How, Muse of Dialectical Abruptions, have I come to not catalogue it?
Depressed llamas court all over the plain.
You and I shop for jeans, while
Mila, our bronzed compatriot,
Traces the footsteps
Of some ancien régime,
And prefabbing pedigrees
With incredible speed.
Fling your heart into the flame,
Where Morality marries Death
And jousting lads lament
That no father watches them
Fight, kill, maim, imperil,
Dodge lance and vault
Into the maw of fable,
Until a green lady arrives
With pelagic grace,
And all saints.
Philip Larkin and Frantz Fanon met inside a motorcade. Shared books. Cigarettes.
It was presidential.
Or one of those waiting-to-enter-Rome Fellini, tyrant of Rimini, things.
Big hernia. Media-speckled. Schizo-inferno. Interfaith.
I remember the place.
All around, it snowd another year.