|
We tumble out of bed like slugs
dragging our torsos to fulfill
the mundane daily rituals
of being husband and wife,
banker and lawyer,
father and mother
to unborn babies, sacrificed
for mortal pleasures.
Their invisible lives emanate from
the burnt toast, popping out
from the methodological toaster,
timed, precise and crisp -
like our thoughts and calculations,
of which property to buy or how
to clinch that promotion or pay
for the Mediterranean cruise.
The shadows of the dead
cocoon us, draped in the
miasma of broken faith,
ancient wombs, rotten earth.
We carry the scent of the
living dead as we die living
the life of marital silence
and material piety.
This is the way we drive to
work, everyday, enjoying
the ride and solitude,
which takes us far,
far, far ahead in the
race against everything
common, mundane
and lame. |
