by Kate Mounce
therefore I am
unquenchably happy, thin,
better looking up close than in magazines,
(still not smug, nor unable to work in a group).
projects designed by me
parting the rolling red sea of consumer-driven life
for countless disaffected youths
who thus become
Wall Street protégées, or
Downing Street darlings, or better yet
First-on-the-quick-dial consultants to the UN,
and whose phoned thanks
my red-eyed colleagues’ ‘Eureka!’s drown,
an agitated white flock impatient to squeeze
my tumour-healing hands,
to the more capacious of my chateaux.
blissful, irreproachable couplings.
Eating my cake
In the bed I have made,
scoffing and scoffing,
‘til the effort produces golden sweat on my skin.
Commemorating benches in hospital wards
Prizes for kindness
Invitations to lecture
Sojourns on the Riviera
Openings of my penthouse collection
Runs at The National
Aid without end to the Third World
A Glorious Send-off.
From my shadowed front door
weep Diana-long garlands along my estate
to crest the gatekeeper’s post.
And then I sense
the taking down of decorations,
morning searing along the horizon of my eyelids,
the waking shock of the outdoors in my throat.
And deeper still
The slowing whir
of a projector