Anapests for the Desperate
What you want: to reduce us to one million jerks.
The self-satisfied dreamers must stop pimping art
and make love to the right kind of girls
where they sit, waiting for lust to show up
and seem dissolute. Things are too beautiful
to be kept under wraps; when the money is ready
the human voice slips into juicy bit parts
and unscripted identities, toys with consent
on the fringe of atrocities, makes business sense.
But you want this with just a disconsolate edge,
a nostalgia that cuts, words you’d put on your fridge
before pissing in cornflakes. The childless world
dodges your bullets, and most of the rest vote for Bush,
their dead families valued at Hollywood’s price.

Brad Buchanan