Selections:

 

4

Marx was here for breakfast

he said good things about the Proletariat,

ate scantily, according to his needs,

stacked the dishwasher, according to his ability,

his polite ghost haunted our neighborhood

for years, mumbling things like: “fuck Castro”

and “Rosa rocks”

we decided to take no notice of him –

this phantom didn’t know what he was saying,

he was a raver, we should pay him no heed,

until this morning – he ate his breakfast and left

a sad ghost of justice and scientific determinism

and we, sad commodities, ran after him

here is a rose bearded man:

remember us in your prayers

now everything’s collapsed, even Engels

is indulging in opiates, watching reality tv

and appearing on Oprah:

“look great diva, me and my buddy

M can be the next marketing sensation

look, how cute Das Kapital’s Russian cover is

we will make it a movie soon”


 

8

after the installation of your phone system

the driver woke up next to a mermaid

she was very proper and she liked parks and reading

yet she freaked out when all

seemed real  (this waking dream)

he was on too much medication, asleep on the job,

wires crossed, ring tones malfunctioning,

he wanted to drive off into the sunset, to just

disappear and she got it she called him later

come back my dear come for a night in the sea.

flat on his back under a tangle of cobalt blue ethernet cable,

he imagined that he heard her say ‘sea of tranquility’ –

from the floor, he peered blearily at the deep night sky

through the open window and he saw himself

wide open on a surgeon table he knew the job

would finally catch up to him he knew that mermaids

aren’t computer savvy he knew that humans can

live in the sea if they set their heart on it


 

9

in Rupert Murdoch’s multiplex

a short beam of light bounces on a seat –

an usher patrolling the perimeter

just beyond the lime-green EXIT sign

we exit together – it is not heaven yet –

although i love your point of view

and will dream of it occasionally

when i’m dozing at the farout library playstation

waiting for Purgatorio – the zany endgame –

to download yet the SYSTEM crashed and

broke its leg – ah

we – sister – have one place to go: the future

with its beautiful software: sweet yet radical,

bitter yet conservative, cliched

yet original, drunk yet sober, we will arrive

at our personal broadband quota,

get that game, and the SYSTEM repaired

but we are going crazy in the background

aren’t we?


 

12

this is the life come on

an abundance of optimism

we will do it and how bring it on

the wonderful world

the total fucking brilliant world

and oh how lovely is everyone

the car seat is lovely the child is lovely

the traffic and the asphalt are lovely together

the fucking traffic is lovely by itself

a rubbery grime making op art patterns

in the fog of fumes on the sidewalk

we’re doing it yes we are it’s great

we’re making a difference from the beautiful car

passing by an infinite number of lovers

an infinite number of broken hearted lovers

and stacks of clothes they used to wear

cast aside in impulsive aspiration

of the liberty that promises independence

it’s entirely fucking brilliant


 

15

under this average sky

I was not supposed to stutter

or assume any form of faith,

once the clouds lifted I had to rebel –

assuming average is schmaverage

I j.. j.. joined up, initial drawback,

I had to configure the d..d..dish myself

otherwise I would have had to imagine

my favorite reality show : the earth is rotating

and the party animals are happy for it,

trundling round and round perpetually

the axis always beyond belief

the pop drinks laced with pills

before the neighbors heard the shots

and went on long sabbaticals

let us study violence and average-ness

without hoping for transcendence,

let’s just g..g..get into it

read books about wars

or ask our dearest friend to bring

a knife to the dinner party

and stab us so kindly

that we feel no pain and bear no wound

so what’s the p..p..point of that?

some masochistic test of faith?

before or after dessert?


 

21

in two hundred and fifty thousand years

my sludge of waste might lose its poison

but nothing’s set in stone

except the joy and anguish of being here

with one week to practice what we believe

but can we sleep it off or at least die trying?

my sincere apology to mother earth

as glaciers melt around us

and wild winds rattle the lattice

and thunder claps the hell out of the world

and sheet lightning spears and spins the sky

now, with a mathematician’s belief I throw things around

and make this defunct world my theme song

though I know the theory of connection

between music and maths is a myth

I’ll continue singing against all odds,

I’ll cheat that physics and I’ll cheat nature

and keep a layer of lyrics between the world and myself

and convince my friends to come for dinner

despite the weather man’s threats to throw his things around –

to chuck the astrolabe, the vane, the compass, the spirit level,

out the window where he wants to lean to finger the breeze

or lick the air without having to answer to anybody

he said, keep me alive folks, please do,

it’s not my fault I simply make the forecasts

yet it is your own sin to believe them