The News is Better as a Joseph Heller Novel
(from notes discovered in a notebook)
Noone weeps
anymore. The bombs go
off—percussion
for the raging
song—and we’re stunned.
Noone weeps.
In our fantasies and
nightmares, we’ve journeyed
through aroused skin,
to the heart of
the city’s heaving
lungs, its weathered,
concrete bones—
we’ve sipped coffee
watching the setting
metamorphosis of death.
On the catwalks,
we’ve rated this year’s
sleek fashions
and in the fashion
quarter—we’ve seen
it hawked in history
superstores—
retro/retro/retro.
The bombs go off
and noone weeps—
it’s just this season’s
colour.
2 comments:
You know I commented elsewhere on this--
but wanted to say it is very timely on a day like today: 60 dead they say.
What can be done?
The same water -- the river passes new generations with old water: again and again-- retro retro retro
Aisha
Meanwhile, think Lofoten. Photography. Maelstrom. My local Pizza Parlour now run by a couple of nice Pakistani boys. Coffee right on the harbour. Coffee at the top of the hotel where Arafat stayed. Coffee where Clinton had his. Coffee I mean :)
Next summer sounds wonderful, I can hardly wait. Strange you should bring up going to places where others have been and the poem reflects the inevitability of repeating history as though it is new all over again. Then again, for each of us, it is.
Helm.
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