Ernesto
reduced to pop art, present, tense, from my heaving electro chest
your dead eyes gaze, into a sea of objectified breasts.

In Bristol or Bangkok
from Glastonbury to Fuji Rock, in malls and MackyDs –
dorm-rooms and dance-floors bounce to the beat of repackaged revolution.

Che, God of Mass-a-Cola
between mediate and murder
of the perversion of subversion there is no line to walk.

Hey! Major unit shifter,
how do you like immortality now?

Back against some frat-house wall, beside the soft-porn princes and the goddesses of fashion
– do you leer in quiet contempt, your eyes as yellow with the years
as their salon-tousled hair?

In Havana when the power fails ( just the lights this time, too many new TVs in the city, they say)
spare a thought for the anorexic supermodel on the box – bitter tongues conspire against the air-brushed simulacra of her sex
– puffed/fluffed and scooped/addressed/undressed and redressed on the silky pages of
Vogue.

Into a whirlwind of consuming fire, ideals turn to “I desire”.
With open mind
and hemorrhaging soul, I reach deeper…
…into the Pandora paradox,
And her plethora of death treasures,
desperate times she told me once
(and such are these)
call for desperate pleasures.
But a locked chest is a locked heart.

And leaning back into this attic world —
— just dust, dust! —
10 000 boxes smashed to smithers —
a million windows lit with blue, I gaze into the crystal void
and find — not my — face reflected, you!