Alive in this rocket powered utopia
the body is remade for sport, for
play, for the sake of something new
to look upon in the mirrors of
our wholesale paradise as it
slowly becomes us, and we are
gradually transmuted into
marketable wares, commodities
to which others may aspire, all
chromed corners and surgical
improvements, all tidy and doll-like,
unencumbered by the tiresome
humanity we wiped clean and
sanitized, as we would a
crumb-covered table in the
stale aftermath of the
afternoon's lunch crowd,
resetting to zero, forgetting
everything, becoming new and
if not innocent, at least fresh,
at least delectable in our
artificial, wholesome beauty.
What beauty this wholesome image
rendered in artificial line and
color, delectable only to those
least discerning, those fresh,
willful innocents who crave
the new meat, everything before
forgotten, zeros in their eyes as
the lunch rush begins in the aftermath
of morning, tables and hearts
sanitized, empty of humanity,
empty handed as discarded dolls
sterile as surgical chrome, all
aspirations delegated to others
the commodity of their wares
transmuted into abstraction
only to gradually slow,
paradise sold wholesale, at
least faded mirrors of it,
new from the look but recycled
suited only for play, the body
of truth unmade, utopia unbound
as life's last rockets struggle
to darken the sky.
Patrick M. Tracy
2/26/09
1 comment:
Challenging, deep, but still unsettleing. M
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