The consumer as lonely king
The shout goes up. It's all about you.
I'm holding a cheap crown. Advertisers
tell me it's mine. Others accuse me
of believing them. I’m always tired.
I want to say You’ve got me wrong.
I know I'm nothing. I am innocent
of being myself. Meanwhile half the shelves
feed me, the rest cut me back to size.
Half strip the world, the rest restore
my wild ideals, with perfumes plucked
from fragile hills. My basket fills with comforts
that perish on the journey home
and never touch my emergency
in the golden hour of the world.
Escape to the country
In the land of second homes, damp earth and sky are status goods / Chris makes fire, Amy
splits tomorrow’s logs / Smooth white cheeks redden / Health: the just reward for an outdoor
life / Can I do anything useful? / I slide the foraged mushrooms into the pot. / There’s always
the risk of human error says Marcus.
Hell is other people’s values. I want them to be fools.
They have six acres / We could live off this land if we had to / There are coy smiles / There is
something else / They have guns, actually / Our worlds divide / There’s no self-build Arcadia
for me if supply chains fail / I am club-fingered, my balance is poor / I can’t afford land, I can hardly scare a mouse.
I’ve never held a gun. I say. I don’t know if I’ve seen one.
__________
Tom Sastry has published two collections with Nine Arches Press, the more recent of which is You have no normal country to return to.
These poems were selected by Anthropocene guest editor Tom Branfoot.