Dissociation by deity

Or: Marx in agony

Say I’m a Sufi (we will pretend now
how we pretend always) in poverty:
the dire world does not exist! My nerves
are subtle figments and my hunger (loud
and ecstatic) are there no more
than a surly demon is. The suited men
filing by armed with kalashnikovs
exist no more than my hunger does—
the refuge of mysticism is
the feigned death of unhappiness
(for I starve and it is no matter—
and my children are illusions)
and lo the wealthy scorn me,
and I am no such thing as a man—
I am liberated! When afloat
(I have seen paradise in smoke)
in the street I hallucinate
for mere moments people
who do in fact suffer and—
I pray and say, “Our miseries
need no attending to,”
and thereby am satisfied—


~ by Jeremy on June 25, 2013.

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