Swiss Hotel Rooms

Everytime I talk about powerless people
I do it in Swiss hotel rooms

So many rotten hands
Emersed in rotten dreams
Built on top of
Crumbling wooden beams

Garden of tinned roofs
And dirty streams
My slow, pathetic feet
Sweeping through meaningless schemes

I sigh.

But soon I step
In to my
Top notch Buisiness Class
Pristine Boeing wing span
In one hand
A wine glass
In the other
A pen and paper.

On which flows my poetry
About this poverty
The sound of beggers
Mixed with the delicate voice
Of the hostess
Her milky white legs
The same colour
As the saccharin happiness promised below.

The soft tinkle
As she places glass on glass
Mixed with echoes
Of the slums below
And the words flow,
As if written
From another universe.

A sterile bubble, if you will.

Jet lagged
Mind shagged
In my high rise
American flat
On this pedestal
Of a wonderful economy.

Turn on some soundtrack
Some edgy new alternative band.

I sigh.

Such a sorry state of affairs
To think of me here
In my central-heated bliss
Delicate snowflakes clouding
The hand-polished Italian window frames
And to think of them
8 1/2 thousand miles away
With out-stretched hands
Skin taught over hollow bones
Blackened feet
Their contorted limbs
Bent, as if mocking my corpulent stance.

I sit down,
Let the flow of poetry
Take over me
Words drip onto delicate lined paper
Passionate cries for attention
To this world's atrocities

Enough atrocities
For me to fill a thousand pages
A river of ink
An anthology of despair.

6 months.

6th page New York Times
Bestseller
Eye opener
For your common fella'
For 6 more weeks
The nation united
Against whatever
These poems cited.

It's all enough now.
Enough for me
To settle down
Feed the dog
Enough for me to buy
Another hise rise
American flat
On this pedestal
Of a wonderful economy.

Such a magnificent, juxtaposed world
Each 100 mile distance
As if etched out from a separate universe.

Everytime I talk about powerless people
I do it in Swiss hotel rooms