In Context
A poem
When the radioactive fallout
soaks the faces of children
turned into blast shadows
on cracked concrete sidewalks
where they once played hopscotch
and multi-million dollar flats
on Shard-like skyscrapers
are scraped like nuclear winter ice
off cars' windshields, humanity
will be reduced to macabre
manmade cave paintings
of a homogeneous shade…
And here you are, worried sick
about what assets to hold
in case of Armageddon. Bitcoin
versus hard currency, you think,
as if your choice of savings
would spare you from radiation sickness
or the space madness caused
by the decades of inhabiting
in a “luxurious” fallout shelter
where in Crystal champagne coupes –
blown into the shape of a breast
because men suck on the tit of stupidity –
like how you’ll toast your recycled urine
convincing yourself, it tastes of Evian…
Now I understand why my grandfather
prayed to die peacefully in his sleep.
He knew his millions meant
his DNR would not be obeyed.
That’s why he never bothered with a will:
no one obeyed it when he was healthy.
How ironic is of End of Life Law
when it’s left in the hands of the healthy.
Never was carrying a bindle
filled with cyanide, a pack of Rizla,
a green BIC lighter, a razor blade,
and two buffalo copper rounds
in your back pocket for Charon
the soundest financial vehicle.
