orgasms in beige

I buy a chocolate bar,
with the promise of energy and health,
- I still believe in those things, who doesn't? -
but balk from the tired prepackaged salad,

I never thought bits of plant could look that bored;

Corn stares at me blandly, like dead fish;
the tandoori chicken sandwich looks feeble and meager.

After a couple of decades I've understood,

and come to terms,
there's little to wait for after one has heard
Biber's Missa Bruxellensis' Kyrie.

Few things will get better.

Entropy is a merciless mistress.

I recall when the world we were told
was coming was made of neon.
Remember back then?
Then it was OK Computer labor-crayon dystopia,
and the arrival of the bearded leftist designer
with the funny and expensive sneakers

and the love for fair trade espressos.

ah nice days, college, sheltered, partying,
little effort, lingering days,

postpone the inevitable crash against walls

we were, in honesty, hardly ever told were there.

As a member of urban bourgeois,
I have a fear of violent death.

I can't fathom so many are so devoid

that do not wish for a clean country,
well-lit houses stacked with books,
great food we should not take for granted
and shelter from the cold.
Beige orgasms and no big jolts
to be expected from life.

No news is good news.

The chosen few and grass with dew.

And I see what a big gift to my children
that would be.