They call the parasitium a paradise, they
tell us we’re all safe beneath its dome,
but I’ve heard rumors there’s another
land outside—if we can only loose the ties
of our dependency—a place where each
wild star might cast its light.
By day I wander in the markets,
stop before the soap box preacher
who swears that only those without
a heart are truly pure, that they
alone will know a rational salvation
in the world beyond the plastic.
At night I smoke cold menthol
cigarettes and watch as Madam
Moon commands her coterie of
stars to shine, a parade of
frozen stellar beauty through
her bordello deep in space.
From sunrise till the last bell rings,
we’re passion’s smoke made solid,
she told me, and we will never see
beyond our harsh desires.
I wonder, who is right?
An impression of the Dr Chau Chak Wing Building at the University of Technology Sydney, which was designed by architect Frank Gehry. It looks nothing like this.