all the world’s future reveals itself to be

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 cluckcluck 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
are in
vicious and unspoken competition
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.”

what happens,
is this:

that the scales fall from the eyes of the tycoons’ wives,

and that they discover

 a truth
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

a shroud

from which no light escapes.

it is black both in

bad ways,

and good.


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