furious bliss

for Lauren

if you could measure the extent of my furious bliss
you would be astounded by just how shallow joy is

a full belly, fresh air, a good night’s sleep and water that’s clean
now the luxuries: the ability to read, a good book and a glass of wine

i go about my morning routine
my automatic actions

every simple miracle of it etched banal
pouring cold coffee from yesterday
into the ceramic mug, shipped here
from the place i’ve never seen

i don’t even think about the coffee beans
let alone the organic sugar (how moral & responsible!)
and the milk drained from udders of bovine prisoners

i couldn’t make a pencil
let alone a bicycle
all of Adam Smith’s invisible hands
choke me, complicit and pathetic
swaddled in the labour of millions

& damn the bug-eyed hungry children
who make me change the channel
with their implicit accusations
leveraged by rich pale skinned pseudo-celebrities
who ask me for money to pay them to care
so i don’t have to

this poem was supposed to be about satisfaction
it was supposed to have a happy ending
but my pious peacock social consciousness
my ideals strangled by post-modernist bullshit
can’t accept satisfaction

isn’t it lovely to have the luxury of language?
& lovely to have lots of wealthy internet friends?
it’s lovely that we can whisper together & feel cosmopolitan & connected
just like it’s lovely that i can afford to drink myself stupid
so i can say witty things to beautiful women

maybe we should burn all our books
hide in the woods
and wait for the world to die

or we could just drive and drive and drive
to anywhere but wherever we are
keep busy, keep occupied
accelerate to decline