Just Another Rape
I am nobody.
As the lightning flashed
the city showed itself as greasy ruins,
and lush landscape was revealed
as desert mask.
I am the restaurant that closed for lunch.
I am the tedious
foreword to an unwritten
and unpublishable book.
As bombs explode
I am not even the most minor item
in the most odious newspaper,
not even the most minor character
in the cheapest work of fiction.
As bombs explode and people weep
and politicians pretend to grieve,
and the prices of insurance
rise, I mumble forth my benediction:
The best of Man is his ruins.
In pain-waste of ruin the lost jerk and squirm
and dissolve into nothing but ruin
and pain-waste of human connection
to world and to human...
Sperm doesn't care
whose cock it dribbles from.
Shelves in the food-halls
of terrible towers
are stacked with prices and corpses.
As famine hobbles and crawls
I am the nothing around which spins
the vainglory which I despise.
What I experience as suffering
is just the knowledge that
(like the spat sperm which forced me into life)
I'm floating in the sea of suffering,
and my contempt is nothing
but a dropp of slime
upon the infinitely deep and crumbling
well-shaft of time.