courtney
Jon Powell
And why sing of pastel skies
when all stays fucking beige?
Rise up in anger and nothing
changes. Find that all revolutions
are sold out. Find that
those who should hear you
are lost in the seamless
fabric of perfectly edged lawns,
Staffordshire China, shopping
channels. Itıs so well weighted,
isn't it? The curtains ordered
don't quite match the ochre
in the sofa? The Merlot's
a tad off? Hell, redo
the whole house. That,
bitch, is power.
You can feel it in thr nape
of your neck, how the warp and weft
of life is done, undone. A mere fleck
in God's eye. Wind scattered
grist lost forever, lost
as in a msh pit floating
on the hands of strangers.