The last poem about spies! In your neighborhood! In your bathroom! Under your rug right this instant! Also, do you listen to Coldplay? Write a comment if you get the joke! Zing!
spies in the field: green life
it’s been decided:
the future is the despot’s
toy;
and we watch through windows
as large men
shimmy unhappy
as their gals take turns on
telephones
giving over the news of the grand
old
broke.
we are such
fragile things,
beautiful,
lingering on the bylines
and
watching silly barbarians dress in lipstick
and kiss lampposts under neon
nights in the drift of taxi
cab
oblivion.
oblivion, we don’t care.
oblivion, we
are spectacle.
fireworks too, we guess,
at the end of everything,
because who doesn’t like a festival?
a
parade?
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