Anarchia

Time is distorted
like a Van Gogh absinthe clock,
morals relativized
till nothing shocks

beasts on the street
carrying purses
and holding leashes,
freed from factory yokes
by titanic silicon progress:
freed to regress, ingest,
and undress

beasts in mansions,
monsters at the opera
barbarians at fusion cafes
using the right forks,
paid for by the mongrol horde
on the stock exchange floors
seated blood-thirsty at corporate boards

above all this
the approved learned
congregate in ivory towers
(wearing terrible jargon masks
like Tibetan monks)
to display their ornate powers
of erudite seduction and reduction:
beautiful women gasp
as such things are said
that "effect nothing"
but "live in the valley"
of their "saying"

Time is distorted
like a Van Gogh clock,
morals relativized
till nothing shocks

or so the mad poet
portrays it:
maddened with hunger
in a land that loves not poetry
nor philosophy:
not today anyway

tommorow, perhaps he will be fat
and well wined
and it will be "Tranquillia,"
a great coastal scene
in which all are reborn
like Boticelli's Venus,
pink flowers falling
onto our revitalized breasts,
all thorny social questions
finally addressed,
potato humble sages
playing glass bead games
at Van Gogh's cafe tables at night
all by poetic light

"tommorow, tommorow, and tommorow"