Busy being born: a poem for ends

Busy being born: a poem for ends
Busy being born: a poem for ends
Serving little or no purpose,

I live in splendour and happiness:

Busy being born.

 

The Eames in which I sit –

An original lounge 1956

Complete with ottoman –

Is tax-deductible.

 

(My assembly-line runs fast

And blackens the skin.)

 

I have nets to catch me,

And a glass staircase,

With plush, red carpet,

Cascading like a slinky.

 

(Real artists, like me,

Ship distressed fabrics

From corrugated sheds with

No-suicide pacts.)

 

Blistered palms turned upward,

I am collected from the netting and

Borne back to my cubicle.

 

Serving little or no purpose,

I live in splendour and happiness:

Busy being born.

 

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