to grate our souls through the plining of impestuous days,
reclining yesterdays once the velvet cordoned entry way
to a dark and dusty death, "Lay on, MacDuff, and damned
be him who first cries, ‘Hold, enough! '" but I've had enough
of this upended carousel run by uncivil gerbils ‘round the wheel
through the night and forever in my mind, urging me to buy
to buy, to buy, to chase after the Joneses, and run them down
with a Jaguar whose lease could feed a village if not for the
fan-tousled, aqua-black cocktail witch wagging her finger seductively
protesting the abandonment of this steel and leather opportunity
to distract from the curse of my expanding bald spot which seems
a more crucial imperative than the expanding ozone hole.
Instagram witches monetizing their fifteen minutes of fame,
duck-lipped exhalations blow out, out, brief candles in vain,
their ignorance of tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
the surface reflection of a witches' brew devoid of hubris or shame.
A scarlet letter upon her palms, for Ambition was her middle name,
the wife of Macbeth would have ten thousand followers today
but all the toys in Harrods still would not take that damn spot away.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem