what a pity, lament the tycoon’s wives, to be forced to think about such ugly things at what is usually such a pretty part — what a shamefully dreary backdrop for their unspoilt red-soled shoes and their summer dolce, and their cluck–cluck catch-ups about the weather in st. barthes (lovely, of course — this type of year especially; where do you summer?); what a crashing bore to have to listen to talk about gulags, or war, or genocide, as it puts one off the canapés, rather, though the little salmon puffs are good. cynthia—i haven’t seen you since monaco! erica is debuting her latest nose, and the atmosphere is fractious.
≈ all of the boats in the harbour
with each other.
what happens next is that the tycoons’ wives cry boredom. what happens after that is that they drift, disinterested, to the bar, and the papers yell “grim” and “joyless”, and bemoan the fact that it
“does not make a pretty picture.”
that the scales fall from the eyes of the tycoons’ wives,
and that they discover
that unnerves them
they discover that
their vision of the future
will not endure
and that the rest of us do not share in it.
the future — the future as foretold in all the world’s future, will not be meted out in the lengths of superyachts or in the outreach of miley cyrus’ tongue, but in the
bodies of the dead.
this is a dramatic suggestion.
it is, to be perfectly frank, uncomfortable.
have you seen the new murillo? terribly gloomy.
all the world’s future
reveals itself to be
from which no
it is black both in