There is no argument yet made
That’s not economic:
No fundament spoke sundrily,
Nor topical tonic;
No, neither is there any act –
Or even inkling
Of thought, or muscle memory –
Nor any other thing.

There is no conversation
That is truly idle:
No human breath or sign exchanged
Which is neither grooming
Nor bridal; no, nor are tears shed
Upon another’s end
Excepting when the dead is thought
To be a foe or friend.

There is no true motivation
To act an isolate:
Because, to culture’s brains and bits,
Economy is the gut.
And, ah, how I would borders scrub –
The freer for to be,
But freedom’s price does vary so,
Depending where you be.

I would exchange my hot young blood
For your equality,
But no exchange is fair, played out
In this economy.
So much goodwill, so many gifts
I would impart for free,
But giving just breeds taking – in
Any economy.

I would that all my words were wind
And my wishes were rain,
But my intent is all I own
And my verse is in vain;
For many things I wish I knew
And had the art to show,
But I – like you – have work to do
And my fair face to show.

Appears in:
Mistaken for art or rubbish [2013]


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