The Relationship

I am always struck by how many products define our lives, even when we are resistant. On one side, toothbrushes. On the other, creams. 
& this poem, expressing the fusion of (the despair located within) the domestic and the virtual:

If Eliot were to write your personal apocalypse

 
No, this is the way the world ends.

 

We are dying and someone texts us furniture, a kind of wood & tile Bandaid against ashes.

 

Your in-box has many offers of riches from the Emperor of Bahrain and every time

 

You go online your brain, fissured by a million splinters, repeats I’m OK and I don’t care

 

If you’re OK too.

 

We have no true metaphors for the poetic anymore but that old hunger won’t abate;

 

So instead we turn it into an industry and in this way receive a dinette set, at least.

 

At least there is this.

 

You are dying in a renovated room, well appointed and clean.

 

The dream has been fulfilled, perhaps you will even be able to afford to maintain

 

Your post-mortem web page, which flashes image after image of you, a corpse

 

In your castle of things whimpering I love you, I love you Sandra Dee.

 

Yes how you wanted to believe in the furniture and the whimpering.